The Devil Went Down to Detroit
by unforth
Summary: AU. Sam is a virtuoso violinist, ashamed of his past playing as part of a country trio with his brother Dean and father John. But now Dean is back, and John is missing, and everything's going to change... Warning for drug abuse. This will eventually be M rated.
1. Chapter 1: Everything is Alright

Author's Note: So, my first time sharing any fan fiction I've written for a general audience. First chapter is pretty cut and dry retelling of the early parts of the first episode...but bear with me, I'll be changing things up big time starting in Chapter 2.

I have only a vague idea where this thing is going. I'm mostly winging it. This whole story is just a way to give my brain something to play with that ISN'T obsessing over a novel I'm working on, so I figure I'll work on it when I feel like it and not worry about it otherwise.

Music is very important to this story. I'll be giving links at the bottom of each chapter with intentional musical references. As planned, all lyrics included will be original.

In case you're curious...the main inspiration for this story was listening to "The Devil Went Down to Georgia" while doing yard work. Then I added in a healthy dose of too many crime shows, a lot of music I love, and a smidgen of the manga/anime Kaikan (Sensual) Phrase.

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Chapter 1: Everything is Alright

"What's the matter, babe, can't sleep?" Sam looked up from compulsively fingering the neck of his violin to see Jess standing in the doorway. Her shoulders sagged wearily, her hair was disheveled adorably, and she gave the cutest yawn, failing to muffle it with a knuckle between her teeth. Her yawn triggered one in him, deep and irrepressible. He was so tired, but whenever he closed his eyes all he could see were bars of music in B Minor and all he could hear was the horrible twang of a string snapping. "You'd be practicing right now if I weren't trying to sleep, wouldn't you?" He nodded and yawned again. "In that case, let's practice!" Jess disappeared down the hall, and returned moments later, socketing the pieces of her flute together. She held it to her mouth, gave an experimental blow through the mouthpiece, producing a low, sweet but flat A, and twisted the head around to fix the pitch. Sam slumped back in his arm chair, lifting the violin to his chin. Plopping down on the couch opposite him, Jess lifted her flute and eyed him expectantly. With her lips pursed, she looked delicious, but even that thought couldn't distract him for long.

Jess played a C, and Sam hastily tuned to her, and then they were cascading through C.P.E. Bach's Duet for Flute and Violin. It wasn't one of his audition pieces for Monday, but playing it instantly calmed his nerves. His fingers dancing without him having to think about it, the notes as familiar as the sound of Jess's voice, the feel of her fingers skimming across his skin When he'd gotten to Julliard, he'd been majorly pissed when, right off, they'd insisted that he partner with another player. He'd spent his whole life playing second fiddle – not literally, they were both guitarists, but close enough – to his brother and his father. School was his chance to shine on his own, and he'd resented being assigned to a duet. That resentment had faded when he'd met his partner. He would have had to have been dead to be upset that he would be playing alongside such a gorgeous, buxom blonde. Mr. Mitchell had set the music in front of each of them, and though neither had ever seen it before, they'd exchanged slight smiles, lifted their instruments, and started to play. Sam had never felt anything so right in his life, within the first few bars he knew he'd never get enough of Jess. He never even asked her out, he hadn't needed to. She'd felt the connection too, and they'd been a couple since they'd set down their instruments that first day.

They finished the duet and launched into another, also not part of his audition. He had his 30 minute set down so well that all practicing did was drive him nuts. It was Friday night, the graduate school audition was Monday morning, and he was ready, as ready as he'd ever been for anything in his whole, except maybe losing his virginity. He stared down a weekend of restless frustration and irritation with nothing to occupy himself except drilling the same thirty minutes of music that he'd learned so well he could have played them from beyond the grave. Despite her fatigue, Jess played intensely, eyes closed as her long, strong fingers danced over the flute keys. She was such a talented player, so dedicated to her music, that it consistently amazed him that she was also so dedicated to him.

Midnight came and went. Jess dozed on the couch, flute negligently clutched in her hands. Sam continued to play, turning Liszt's Sonata in B Minor into a lullaby. He felt much calmer than he had earlier, and gradually let his notes grow softer and softer. As he did, he became aware of another sound, an accompanying twang, muffled through the door but distinct. The strummed notes echoed Sam's, harmonizing perfectly, and as Sam went into the melodic section of the song, the guitar picked out a perfect counterpoint effortlessly. Sam let his notes grow more quiet, but guitar continued, beginning again as if playing a chorus, and he heard murmured words.

_Been so long without you,_

_Been so long alone._

_Can't believe the road behind us_

_Looks just like the one we're on._

Sam trailed off, the guitar continued strong, the voice singing gruffly. In his life he'd only known one guitar player good enough to join such a complex melody as if it were child's play, remember it note perfect after one playing, and top it off by creating lyrics on the fly.

_Don't know where we're going to,_

_Not sure where we've been._

_All I know's the road alone_

_Is a mighty sad place to be._

_Is a mighty sad place to be._

Breath catching, Sam crossed the room and hauled the door open. His brother lost his balance and fell to an elbow, guitar making its first sour note. "Dean?" he demanded.

"Heya, Sammy," said his brother with a wry smile, picking himself up off the floor.

"What are you doing here? Why are you serenading me through the damn door? How did you even find me? Why can't you knock like a normal person? Dude, it's after midnight!"

"I've missed you too, Sam," Dean said, swinging the guitar by the strap so that it was hanging down his back. Stepping into the door way, he caught Sam in a strong, one armed hug, patting his back.

"Is everything okay, Sam?" Jess asked sleepily from the couch. Glancing back, he saw her leaning over the back of it, hair even more messy than before. He looked back to Dean, and saw his brother smirking.

"Fine, Jess," Sam gave Dean a warning look. "I'll take care of this."

"Jess, huh?" Dean ignored the warning look completely. "What'd my brother do to get such a sexy roommate?"

"She's not my roommate," said Sam testily. "She's my girlfriend." He almost slipped and said fiancée. He'd been shopping for rings, and he was pretty sure she'd say yes. In his dreams, it was a reality, and with his fatigue, fantasy and truth were difficult to distinguish.

"Your brother?" Jess asked. "Dean?"

"Let's not stand on ceremony, then, I'll just invite myself in," Dean stepped past Sam and into the room. "Nice place you got here."

"Ellen or Jo?"

"What, I can't swing by New York City and visit my baby bro?"

"Jo," Sam growled. "I should never have told her my address." Uncertainly, Jess stood, setting her flute on the coffee table. She was only wearing a loose, thin night shirt and a pair of Sam's boxers hanging loosely over her hips.

"Hi Jess, I'm Dean." Dean offered a hand to Jess, who took it with a bemused expression that grew steadily more annoyed as Dean practically stripped her and screwed her with his eyes.

"What are you doing here, Dean?" exasperation tinged Sam's voice. Possessively, he took a position next to Jess, put an arm over her shoulders.

"Down, tiger," said Dean, laughing brashly. "Winchester's have a big gig, booked as a duo at The Woman in White."

"And…?"

"And I'm a solo act right now," Dean shrugged.

"Then why'd you book a duo?" snapped Sam.

"I didn't. Dad did," said Dean, voice suddenly hard, bantering note gone. " 'Cept now he's missing."

Rubbing his temples, Sam sighed. "I'm not playing gig a with you, Dean." Jess started beside him, looking up at his face with a confused look, but Sam continued to stare down at his younger brother, using every inch of their height difference to his example.

"Come on, it's good money," Dean cajoled.

Damnit, but he did need money. It wasn't that he hadn't found the right ring, it was that on the small stipend that came with his scholarship, he couldn't possibly save enough to buy it without starving for the next six months.

"What kind of gig does he mean?" Jess asked uncertainly.

"Can I speak with my brother alone?" replied Sam.

"But Sam…"

"I promise, I'll explain later," he vowed. Meeting her eyes, she saw the intensity of his look and nodded.

"Why don't I make us some coffee?" she said, walking to the kitchen, adding over her shoulder, "Decaf, so maybe you'll sleep this century."

Alone in his living room with his older brother, Sam stared him down.

"Wait, did I just yank you from the closet?" smirked Dean. "Fancy Julliard girlfriend doesn't know her violinist first chair used to be a Joe Six Pack fiddler?"

"Shut up."

"Seriously, are you that ashamed of coming up as a working weed instead of emerging from some conservatory hot house like some exotic fucking orchid?" the bantering tone was back, but Sam recognized the edge of actual anger all too well. After 17 years watching every move his brother made, Sam knew the man better than he knew himself.

"I said shut up, Dean," he said, frustration giving way to his fatigue. "I can't do this now. Can we not argue, just once? I'm glad you're in town, you can crash on the couch if you want, we can snag breakfast in the morning and catch up, and then you can go your way, and I can go mine. I've got a good thing going here. Please don't fuck it up for me."

"Oh yeah, it'll definitely be me fucking it up, not the way you've hidden your entire past from the woman you care enough about to live with," Dean said. Sam opened his mouth to speak, but Dean restrained him with a raised hand. "I got it. You don't want me around. You don't have to pretend you do. I've got a place, I don't need your fucking couch." Disappointment was only thinly hid by aggression. Turning away, Dean headed out the door.

"Dean…" Despite all the reasons he had to watch his brother leave, Sam couldn't help but arrest him.

Dean paused in the hallway, glancing back over his shoulder. His clear green eyes flashed in the dimly lit corridor. "Sam, dad's gone. Guess I thought I could always count on my brother when things got bad. Guess I was wrong. If you change your mind, you've got my number. I'd love to have you." There was a pause. "Nothing's been the same since you left, Sammy."

Taking a hold of the neck of the guitar, Dean took the turn onto the staircase of Sam's fifth floor walk-up. "Dean!" Sam started down the hall and stopped as Dean gave a casual wave over his shoulder and disappeared out of sight.

"Fuck," he muttered.

"I guess you don't want any coffee?" said Jess sympathetically from the doorway.

"Sorry, Jess," Sam turned to her. "I…" He met her eyes, her smiling face, her trusting expression, and he swallowed his words. "I don't know what to say."

"What's going on, Sam?" she asked with concern, pressing a steaming cup into his hands. It was chocolate brown: she knew exactly how much milk and sugar to add to get it to his taste. Love brought tears to his eyes.

"I…" he shook his head, taking a sip that scalded his tongue. The pain felt appropriate, he deserved to suffer a little for misleading her for so long. No matter how careful he was to never actually lie, the only difference between the vast omissions he'd made and actual deception was semantics. He'd let her think so many things that weren't true. He couldn't bear to think how she'd react if she knew everything, and he couldn't cope with dealing with emotional fallout when his audition was in…fuck, it was less than 60 hours from now.

"Why would you turn down a paying gig?" She put a hand on his chin and forced him to meet her eyes. They were beautifully brown, catching the light, as she led him back into the apartment and sat him down on the couch. Standing over him, she was only barely taller than he was sitting. Her expression was so earnest and open and trusting.

"I don't...do that," he said, at a loss. God, he could never let her down.

"You mean don't fiddle for money anymore?" she said.

Aghast, Sam stammered, "What? I mean…did you hear? It's not what you think."

Jess laughed at him, throwing her head back, a full bodied sound that set her whole body shaking, her wavy hair flouncing about her shoulders. "Oh, Sam," she managed between gales. "How could you think I didn't know? It's in how you play, in how you finger, I always knew you weren't conservatory trained, and I don't care."

"You…knew?" Dazed, he gulped coffee and hacked as it seared his throat. She blinked at him in alarm. "Milk," he said hoarsely. She bolted to the kitchen and brought it back for him, and gulped some straight from the container to ease the burning sensation, then added a healthy amount to his coffee cup.

"I figured you'd tell me when you were ready," she said with a shrug when Sam was no longer cringing in pain. "It doesn't change anything. No matter what your background is, you're still the best violinist I've ever heard. You're still the sweetest, most caring man. I love you, Sam, and wherever you're from, it can't change that I only want to be with you." Smiling gratefully, Sam set the coffee down, rose and caught her in a rough hug. "Too tight, a little too tight," she gasped. He laughed and nosed her hair away from her neck, kissing her below her ear, along the curve of her shoulder, along her clavicle, trailing his lips up to her lips. "But I guess it's okay," she murmured against his mouth. Sam kissed her passionately.

"I love you, Jess," he murmured. "What would I do without you?"

"Crash and burn," she said playfully. "Now, go call your brother before he finds some crap act to accompany him. He was playing mighty fine guitar, he deserves the best at his side."

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Music notes:

_Lyrics are original_. Meant to be synced with a very modified version of the Liszt Piano Sonata in B Minor, roughly minutes 5 to 6 (massively slowed down, creating a counter point, then making it up...)

Links are to YouTube.

C.P.E. Bach Duet for Flute and Violin H.598: watch?v=JG6MgDpQ0po

Liszt Piano Sonata in B Minor for Solo Violin: watch?v=6d7K6JRHFr8

Chapter title: Everything is Alright – take your pick:

Motion City Soundtrack: watch?v=SY-c-_sZ8LI

OR

Jesus Christ Superstar: watch?v=jkje4FiH9Qc


	2. Chapter 2: Easy Come, Easy Go

A/N: As promised, Chapter 2…not quite on script for Season 1! Hope you enjoy...and that it gets you wondering just where I'm heading.

By the way...only minimal research is going into this story. So, if I've got details about how things work wrong...I'm sorry, not sorry.

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**Chapter 2: Easy Come, Easy Go**

"Imtalstsmwnchstrgn," Castiel mumbled hopelessly.

"I must have something stuck in my ear, because I can't have heard you right," Uriel growled.

"Sticking things in your ears is unwise, sir," replied Castiel, delaying the inevitable for another ten or fifteen seconds. "Q tips come with a warning against exactly that."

"Relevance, Agent?" grated Uriel. Castiel winced. Uriel might be the funniest man on their task force, but he had little patience for incompetence.

"I said, I might have lost Sam Winchester again," Castiel repeated, feeling defeated. No one had warned him that his charge would be this difficult. Quite the contrary, it was supposed to be easy. Quiet kid – okay, maybe not a kid, but he was almost a decade younger than Castiel, and after his last few cases, he felt much older than 32 – who goes to Julliard, hardly gets into any trouble, how hard can he be to keep track of? A walk in the park, everyone agreed. Easy as pie.

This was the third time Castiel had lost track of him in the month since he'd begun this assignment.

"Might have?" Uriel's voice dripped sarcasm. "This sounds like a yes or no proposition. You either know where Winchester is – or you don't."

The first time, he'd found Winchester calmly eating an ice cream cone in the Battery, after losing track of him for two hours.

"He hasn't left New York City," said Castiel. "Based on our intelligence, he is playing a show tonight with his brother Dean at a bar called The Woman at White, at the corner of 11th and Avenue C." The phone that Winchester had left in his apartment when he left, so that Castiel couldn't use the GPS to locate him. "He's a man of his word, I feel confident that he will be there at 9 PM. In the meantime, I have several guesses as to his whereabouts."

The second time, it had taken Castiel five and a half hours to find Winchester at an impromptu symphonic orchestral performance in Washington Square Park. Someone had called it a "flash mob," whatever that meant. That time had at least been entertaining, the music had been excellent.

"So, anything could happen to him in the next 14 hours, but assuming he survives, he'll be on stage this evening?" Uriel said sarcastically. "Fantastic."

Castiel strongly suspected that Winchester did it on purpose. The boy knew he was being tailed, and shook them off to see if he could.

"Sir..."

If he'd been assigned to Winchester's father or brother, Castiel would have expected this kind of evasion. John Winchester had been under surveillance for years and had proven his ability to escape observation whenever he pleased. Dean Winchester didn't usually try to escape, instead he did whatever he wanted and didn't give a damn who saw. Sam Winchester was supposed to be the conscientious one in the family. Then again, they all knew that was an illusion.

"Enough bullshit, Novak," snapped Uriel. "Just find him."

This time, like both other times, it was all Gabriel's fault.

"I..." Castiel took the phone away from his ear as it went dead. Call ended, the screen said, 2 minutes and 43 seconds. He let his shoulders slump, but forced himself to hold his head up as if he wasn't facing disaster.

"That went well," said Gabriel brightly around a mouth full of Hershey Bar. Speechless, Castiel glared at him. "Whaaaat?" Castiel quirked his lips into a frown. "You agreed, you were just as much at fault as I was." The frown deepened, his pale lips pursing. "Aw, come on, stop glowering at me. I hate it when you give me those bedroom eyes. They make me think all kind of...inappropriate...things."

Sighing, Castiel ran a hand through his hair, mussing it beyond recognition. "I will file a sexual harassment claim with HR if you keep saying things like that to me."

"You know you love it."

"What I love is my job, Gabriel," said Castiel with the even-tempered voice he had perfected as a TA back in his college days, that one that said that he was extremely disappointed and was the epitome of forbearance for not explaining to the listener precisely why. "And I am increasing danger of losing it."

"I've always hated that phrase," Gabriel mused, indifferent to Castiel's disappointment and forbearance. Gabriel was getting to know him far too well. Being locked in a van together 24/7 could do that. "Lose what? Lose your temper? Are you going to find it again? Did you drop it somewhere? Lose your mind? Oops, my mistake, I accidentally left it on the subway? Lose your virginit-"

"Your point?" Why had he been partnered with this man? How had Gabriel passed training, much less managed nearly 20 years on in the Drug Enforcement Administration without being dismissed from his position?

"We didn't 'lose' Sam Winchester," Gabriel shot him a dirty look for interrupting his stunning and surely completely unexpected turn of wit. "We temporarily misplaced him."

"We had better relocate him," Castiel said firmly. They were parked in their van across the street from the brownstone in Harlem where Winchester lived. Though the neighborhood had a nasty reputation, Castiel had spent enough time there to know that it was only that – a reputation, with little bearing on reality. In fact, he found it rather pleasant. The residents were social and spent a lot of time hanging out on their stoops, everyone seemed to know everyone else, and it was as diverse and accepting as anywhere he'd ever been. If he had a boyfriend, he'd have felt comfortable walking hand in hand down the street. If. Few men tolerated his erratic hours and long absences. Wherever he was assigned in the country, he went, and he never knew how long he'd stay there or what would come next. He loved it, seeing new places, meeting new people, experiencing new things. Everyone he'd dated loathed it.

"He'll turn up soon," said Gabriel, snapping the top off a bottle of Gatorade. "You worry too much." A stare that would have withered a venerable oak tree glanced off Gabriel's mischievous eyes without doing the least damage.

"Let's review events, shall we?" said Castiel. "We are on 24 hour surveillance duty, correct?" Gabriel poured the contents of several pixie sticks into the Gatorade. Castiel glared ineffectually. "Yes or no, Gabriel?" With a shrug, Gabriel nodded. "That means, when one of us is asleep, the other has to be extra alert, right?" Another nod. "So, last night while I slept, you saw the subject's brother?"

"Dean Winchester!" gushed Gabriel, chugging the sugar drink he'd laced with even more sugar. How the man didn't suffer from diabetes was one of life's great mysteries. "_The_ Dean Winchester!" Expectant eyes met disinterested ones. "Come on, all I did was ask for his autograph, and follow him for a few blocks, it wasn't a big deal!" The lie might have worked if Gabriel hadn't told him the truth earlier. Gabriel was great at lying to virtually everyone, except Castiel, who always saw through him. When Castiel had requested a different partner for the assignment, that ability was the justification Uriel had given to explain why he'd paired them. Castiel was beginning to consider purposefully failing to understand Gabriel, just to get away from him.

"You saw Dean Winchester, who is a country singer of middling renown, according to the case file. Knowing that he has familiarity with being under surveillance himself, you nonetheless decided to accost him on the street, demand he autograph your...sex toy—"

"Call a dildo a dildo, Cassie boy," interjected Gabriel.

"—which you have in the van for some reason." Castiel did not want to think about what Gabriel might be getting up to while he was asleep. At least Gabriel waited until he was asleep. "When he refused, you threatened to arrest him. After following him a quarter mile. And then, judging by the new junk food supply, you stopped at the bodega on 146th, where the owner presumably spent at least five minutes showing you pictures of her new granddaughters." Nothing changed in Gabriel's expression, but his grip on the Gatorade bottle grew increasingly white-knuckled as Castiel demonstrated his skill in inference and laid out his evening in more detail than Gabriel had dared to share.

"We know that Sam and Dean haven't seen each other in at least two years, since Special Agents have been tailing Sam that long, and this is the first time they've met in person since we began surveilling," Castiel continued. Gabriel sniggered, and Castiel resisted the urge to ask what he found funny, as he didn't think he'd said anything amusing. It was likely an attempt to distract Castiel from the topic at hand, and he was not interested. "Given what we know of the break up of the Winchester Trio in 2003, this meeting was likely emotionally fraught for both men. As such, it stands to reason that afterwards, Sam Winchester would be tense, anxious, in search of release. In other words, an ideal time to follow him and observe. Yet, you decided it was instead an ideal time to proposition his brother."

"Hey, I did _not_ offer Dean Winchester money for sex," snapped Gabriel. "I don't have to pay for sex when I want it." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "though that is one damn fine man and he could charge a shit-ton, really rake it in, if he wanted."

"Is he even gay, Gabriel?" grated Castiel. "Country music stars aren't noted for their flexible views on sexuality."

"He's bi!" said Gabriel with the slightest hint of defensiveness. "Man, the way he played the media when that came out? Fucking brilliant, he's almost as good at spin as he is at picking guitar. He's way more popular now, and his music is much less repressed. Really enabled him to get his own sound, rather than reproducing 'daddy lite.' "

"Sometime in the half an hour you were gone," Castiel ground on before Gabriel could drag him completely off track, "Winchester left his apartment, and has not been back since. Does that sum up everything we know?"

The van fell silent except for the constant hum of electronics and the nearby honking of morning traffic on Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. As usual, Gabriel didn't betray the least sign of guilt, except for his marked reluctance to meet Castiel's eyes.

"Hey, maybe we could ask her!" said Gabriel with evident relief, pointing at a monitor behind Castiel's head. Jessica Lee Moore emerged from the brownstone, pausing to pull the outer door shut behind her. It was a brisk November morning, and she wore faded blue jeans, a loose gray sweater top that hit every curve on her slim figure perfectly, and her hair was artfully curled and tossed as if she'd been out on a windy day. She bore a large purse and her flute case.

"I should not have to remind you that we are under strict orders not to approach the subject's girlfriend," said Castiel.

"You're not the boss of me," Gabriel laughed.

"No, Uriel is, and he will..."

Gabriel took a quick swig of Gatorade, threw the passenger side door open and bolted from the van before Castiel could stop him. Grinding his teeth and prepared for a train wreck to ensue – unless, if Castiel was incredibly lucky, Gabriel would get hit by a car, running across the street without looking – Castiel pulled the door closed. No obliging semis slammed into the man, and Castiel watched on the monitors, wondering how he'd explain this mess to Uriel.

"Jess!" Gabriel called, voice thin and reedy over their cheap speakers. "Hey, Jess!"

She stopped and turned, body language uncertain, face curious. Blankness took over as she gave Gabriel a once over and obviously did not recognize the dark haired older man in his innocuous, generic blue cover-alls. Their cover was that they were electricians working on a building being gut renovated directly across the street from Winchester's brownstone. They rarely left the van, they even slept there, only going out to snag food or grab a shower at a nearby gym. Which is to say, they presented the appearance of being about as efficient as most independent contractors who haven't been offered a completion bonus.

"I'm sorry," said Jess hesitantly. "Do I know you?"

"You don't remember me?" Gabriel's pitiful puppy dog sad eyes were perfection. They even got Castiel, sometimes, and he could see that Jess was not immune from Gabriel's dubious charms. "Denny's party last week?" The great thing about being on surveillance duty was that it was incredibly easy to pretend to know someone. After all, Castiel and Gabriel knew every single thing Winchester and Moore had done for the past month. Technically, they were following Sam and not Jess, but in practice the two were virtually inseparable. They woke up together, ate breakfast together, showered together, exercised together, left for school together, went to lunch together, came home together, went to restaurants and bars and concerts together, and went to parties together. They had the same friends. They had the same hobbies. Castiel thought it was sweet, in an incomprehensible way – if he spent so much time in the company of another person, he'd want to kill them, hence his increasing frustration with Gabriel. Gabriel uaws many adjectives to describe the couple but his preferred one at the moment was 'cloying," usually said while he made a gagging motion with his hand and mouth.

"I'm sorry, I don't..." she shook her head and started to turn around.

Deftly, Gabriel sidestepped and got in front of her, walking backwards as she forged ahead. "Come on, I know you do, I was wearing the shiny gold lame beer can chicken costume! How could you forget that?"

"I..." she frowned. "Oh! Yeah! You offered me Jell-o shots!" Her face broke into an angelic smile.

"Exactly!" Gabriel laughed and fell in pace beside her. Any moment, they'd be out of range of the cameras. He was already having trouble hearing them. "How'd you like the tequila?" She laughed. "Damn, what were the chances I'd run into you on the street like this? Name's Gabe, by the way." He gave his real name. He gave his _real name_. Castiel looked heaven-ward, praying for patience, then planted his forehead on his palm. "So, where's your other half?"

"Sam's..." and they passed out of hearing range. Of course.

Briefly, Castiel debated his next step. Leaving his partner alone made him nervous. No matter how infuriating Gabriel was, the man was Castiel's responsibility. It was his job to keep him safe. On the other hand, Gabriel could take care of himself, and Moore wasn't exactly high risk. No matter what Castiel did, Gabriel would find ways to get into trouble. Castiel's priority was to locate Sam Winchester before anything befell him.

Glancing across the monitoring equipment, Castiel took stock of the current situation. Sam's phone was...no longer in the apartment. Based on the map, it was currently crossing Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard – which is to say, Jess was carrying it. That suggested that she was going to meet him, in which case Gabriel would hopefully find them both. However, in case that supposition was incorrect, Castiel would try to find the boy first. Nothing else he had gave any information. The first thing Castiel had done when he'd learned the boy had disappeared was check the alleyway where the fire escape let out, but the search had produced no evidence of Winchester being there. Castiel had unlocked the GPS in the couple's friend's phones, and following up on those locations was generally his next step, but today his gut told him that wasn't the answer. This had something to do with Dean Winchester's presence in New York, it must.

Castiel had watched Sam had done for a month, and for six weeks before that, he had learned everything he possibly could about The Roving Demons, the Winchester family, the years of observation that had been done on both, and the sad history that bound the two groups of musicians together. Thinking on it, Castiel thought he could theorize the course of events.

Sam Winchester's brother came to visit around one in the morning. Seeing his brother had upset Sam. Winchester had made a phone call to his brother, which the bug had recorded in full. Dean Winchester, his voice deep and gruff in a way that Castiel found appealing, had poorly masked his surprise at hearing from his brother, and completely failed to mask his enthusiasm that Sam had relented and decided to play a show with him. The lights in the apartment had been on, but within fifteen minutes, they had all flicked off. The monitoring equipment inside the apartment was, at Winchester's request, minimal. Winchester had gone into the bedroom, and shadows shifting across the apartment made it clear he'd left soon after. Subtle, but not enough so that Gabriel would have missed it – had Gabriel been watching at that time, instead of pestering a celebrity.

When Winchester was stressed, he had a few set habits. Through process of elimination, Castiel concluded that in this instance he'd gone for a late night run. It made more sense than the alternatives – he wouldn't be playing the violin somewhere, he obviously wasn't having sex with Jess, he wasn't drinking because Jess would have gone with him, and if he was doing something related to his addiction, there was no reason to avoid his tail. Unless he'd been holding out on them, which Castiel truly doubted.

After his run...Castiel had it. Starting the car, he headed down the street. His cell phone chimed, a disco groove he hated but hadn't been able to figure out how to remove – Gabriel had gotten into his phone, and set the irritating music as his personal ring tone.

"Yes, Gabriel?" Castiel answered.

"Cassie, babe! Sorry to call you so early," said Gabriel, voice oozing suave smoothness.

"Am I supposed to pretend to be your girlfriend for the duration of this call?" Castiel asked as he turned the van into the thin stream of traffic heading downtown so early on a Saturday morning.

"Yeah, sweetums," Gabriel said. "Do you remember Jess, from Denny's Halloween party?" He paused for Castiel to answer, and continued a moment later despite the silence. "Well, would you believe I ran into her this morning as I was heading to work? I know, right, what were the chances?"

"Whatever you've said to her, she's already buying it, you do not need to carry the subterfuge this far, and I should not be holding a cell phone to my ear while I'm driving," castigated Castiel.

"She lives in our neighborhood, it's really wild!" continued Gabriel, undeterred. "Anyway, I mentioned our little problem to her – that we'd run out of what we needed for one of our favorite pastimes? – and she said she knows just the way to help, she can introduce me to a guy. I didn't really need to go to work two hours early today anyway, I can make up the time on Monday, so, I'm going with her! Rad, right?"

"We are under strict orders _not_ to use Jessica Moore as an informant," snapped Castiel. "Do not go with her to a meet!"

"Don't worry, babe, it's totally safe," said Gabriel soothingly. "You know you can count on me to get the good stuff. I love you."

"Gabriel—"

"No, I love you more, snookie-wookums," Gabriel made kissing sounds into the telephone, much to Castiel's disgust. "Talk to you soon!"

"Wait!" The line went dead. Coincidentally, the call was the exact same length as the one he'd had with Uriel earlier.

He should turn around and find Gabriel. It was not safe for the other man to go, alone, to a meet with an unknown drug provider with only Jessica Moore with him. However, Castiel was nearly positive where he'd find Sam Winchester. The longer he delayed getting there, the more likely the boy would go elsewhere.

The minimal morning traffic ensured that Castiel pulled up to the intersection of 57th Street and 5th Avenue in record time. Parking semi-legally – if a cop ran the plates, they'd know it was a vehicle in federal service and leave it alone – he hopped out and walked the short distance to the massive store front, faced in pale white stone and capped with distinctive blue awnings. One of the only places that Sam Winchester regularly went without Moore – Tiffany and Co.

Sure enough, the tall, brown haired young man paced in front of the store windows, waiting impatiently for them to open at 8:30. Dressed in exercise pants and a white t-shirt, an electronic music player of some kind strapped into a holder around his shoulder, he had head phones in his ears. With eyes half-lidded, his fingers danced as if he were fingering a piece as his head bobbed to a beat only he could hear. He didn't appear to notice Castiel.

"Mr. Winchester," said Castiel. There was no reaction. "Sam Winchester," he repeated more insistently, following Winchester down the street. Still no reaction. Reluctantly, he reached up and rested a hand on Winchester's shoulder.

The other man jumped and rounded on him, eyes flying wide open, breath catching. "Hey, what?" he exclaimed, fright and anger in his tone. His expression settled into something resembling calmness when he saw who he was facing. "Oh, it's you. How do you always find me?"

"I would not need to if you would allow us to do our jobs," said Castiel, funneling all the irritation of the past few hours into an icy, condemning tone of voice. Sam's face fell, mouth turning guiltily. "You need to take the danger you are in seriously."

"I'm fine," said Winchester unconvincingly. "I just needed some time alone."

"Very well," Castiel continued frostily. "However, when you leave without us, we have no way of knowing that you are only in pursuit of isolation. For all we know, you are contacting your dealer, or planning to take again, or have been blackmailed into exposing yourself, or have been kidnapped. We are here to protect you, Sam," Winchester was mouthing the words of the familiar lecture along with Castiel, eyes raised skyward, "we are not your enemy."

"I know, I know," Winchester smiled sheepishly. "Look, there's just one more thing I need to do, and then – how about this – you can take me right home, yourself. Will that make you happy?"

"It's not a question of my happiness or unhappiness," Castiel replied, baffled. "It's a question of your safety, your continued usefulness as a confidential informant, and the ever-increasing necessity of tracing the drugs back to their source. But yes, now that I have located you, I would be content to wait while you finish your business at the jewelry store, and then accompany you back to your apartment."

"Great," said Winchester. "Perfect. I just need, like, ten minutes. Half an hour tops."

As if on cue, a nearby church bell chimed the half hour, and the metal bar that protected the door to the store slid down, marking that Tiffany was open for business. Without another word, Winchester darted through the doors. Wishing there was a way that he could monitor both exits from the store at the same time, Castiel returned to his van. If Sam Winchester said that he would accept a ride home, he was telling the truth, Castiel reminded himself. The Winchester boy didn't lie, that was Dean Winchester's territory.

Fretting, Castiel moved to a slightly more legal spot from which he could watch the entrance, parked and turned on his hazards, waving politely at a nearby policeman, who looked curious but didn't approach. How long would it take Gabriel to meet with Moore's supplier? How long before Gabriel contacted him to let him know that he was alright? Knowing the other man, it could be some time. It probably wouldn't occur to him that Castiel would be concerned. Protocol said that in such instances, Gabriel should contact his partner as soon as he could safely do so, but in practice, Gabriel would likely delight in leaving Castiel on tenterhooks.

Nearly an hour passed before Sam Winchester emerged and came over to the van, hopping into the passenger side casually. "Thanks for that, Agent Novak," the boy said, sounding relieved and delighted. "I'm sorry it took so long." Winchester fiddled with his iPod, something in his body language cluing Castiel in that he should wait before starting the car running again. "May I show you something?" Castiel nodded. Winchester passed over the device, loaded with a picture of a simple ring with a glittering, heart shaped diamond set in white gold. "Do you think she'll like it?"

"I...do not know Jessica Moore well enough to say, Mr. Winchester," Castiel said apologetically. "However, it is an attractive ring, and I do not doubt her affection for you."

Winchester laughed. "Thanks, I guess. By the way, would you please call me Sam, already? You've been on my detail for a month. You see video of me lounging in my living room in my boxer shorts drinking OJ from the carton. It's alright if we're on a first name basis."

"Of course, Samuel," Castiel said hesitantly. Winchester looked horrified. "Sam."

"There we go," Winchester – Sam – shook his head with a wry smile. "I never had any problem getting the last pair to call me by name, and I'm going to punch Gabe right in his smug mouth if he doesn't stop calling me Sammy, but you kept right on calling me Mr. Winchester. I thought you'd never stop."

"I'm sorry, Sam," Castiel shrugged his shoulders slightly to dispel a knot of discomfort in his back, the accumulated concern of losing his charge, not knowing if Gabriel was in danger, all the tension of the morning locked right between his shoulder blades. The boy was looking at him expectantly, though Castiel wasn't sure why. "My first name is Castiel, if you'd prefer to call me that." Sam broke into a dazzling, white-toothed smile, and Castiel supposed that he'd said the right thing. Interacting with subjects was not his strong point. Gabriel was there to be social, Castiel was there to be efficient and competent, knowledgeable, on point, reliable...really, everything other than social. "Let's get you home."

It was after ten in the morning when they turned back down 142nd Street. The sun had come out in full force, the sky was dazzlingly blue, and the temperature was soaring to lofty heights for so late in the year. The Harlem neighborhood bustled with people beaming smiles and wearing t-shirts and shorts, all keenly aware this might be the last warm day before spring. Out of sight of the building, Castiel let Sam out of the car, then turned around the corner. As Castiel pulled the van into their usual spot – always vacant due to the presence of a fire hydrant that didn't actually work – the last bit of tension left his shoulders as he saw Moore and Gabriel talking animatedly on the stoop with an incredibly thin, curly-haired black woman, a short Latino man, and two white women who were holding hands. Sam came jogging around the corner as if he'd been running the whole time, and Moore broke into a smile as bright as the sunshine when she saw him.

Castiel saw a lot that worried him. Her hands shook slightly, her pupils were dilated, and her breathing was rapid. Based on her records, Moore's drug of choice was methamphetamines, and she showed all the signs of having taken them recently. Castiel wondered if Sam noticed. He should, given his own history of using the drug, but then, he was clearly very in love. His conversation on the drive back uptown had revealed he was nearly euphoric over putting in a down payment on an engagement ring. How much would he notice, besides her beauty, the enthusiastic way she greeted him, the presumed tenderness of the kiss he bestowed on her cheek? It was worrisome, to say the least.

The group on the stoop broke up, Sam and Moore returning to their apartment, the strangers met on the street turning and proceeding their separate ways and, after several minutes, Gabriel returned to the van.

"Nailed it," he whooped as soon as he closed the door. "Slipped a bug into the dealer's pocket. Should be feeding in to the computer as we speak. Who's the man? I'm the man." Castiel stared him down impassively. "You're _also_ the man, Cassie. No one finds Sam Winchester like you do!"

"No one loses him like you do," sighed Castiel. Gabriel was watching him expectantly, lips quirked in the hint of a smile. "But you did a good job. I had better tell Uriel that we have located Sam."

The morning's adventures done, they settled into another dull day on surveillance. They took turns resting and monitoring the constant influx of data they received. They each took a break to go to the gym, exercise, get cleaned up and changed, and grab some food. Castiel listened to a stream of meaningless conversation and violin and flute practice. Castiel outreached to The Woman in White and explained the situation to the manager and head of security, ensuring that they'd have no problems following Sam to the concert venue. Throughout the day, Sam's excitement was palpable but he didn't share his secret, and if he noticed that Moore had taken drugs, he didn't say anything. It was dark out, the interior of the van dimly lit by screens, when Gabriel silently shook him awake. Castiel started to speak, but Gabriel put a finger to his lips.

"...not coming?" said Sam, incredulously.

"I'm sorry, Sam," Moore replied. "You know I hate to miss it, but Meg's parents kicked her out and she's really broken up about it. She has nowhere else to go, so I said she could come here, crash on the couch if she wants. I promised ice cream and all the 'Sex in the City' she can bear."

"No, it's okay," said Sam with obvious disappointment. "I'm sorry to hear about Meg. Well, uh, guess I'll see you when I get back?"

There was a pause. A glance at the camera showed the two hugging. Jess was wearing PJs despite the early hour, and Sam was wearing faded blue jeans and a dark t-shirt topped with a plaid button up shirt worn loose. His honey-toned brown hair curled around his ears adorably.

"See if you can convince your brother to spend the night," she said, grinning, as they drew apart. "Who knows when he'll next be in New York? I want to get to know him!"

"I'm not letting him within 25 feet of you," replied Sam, expression playful.

"And he's single, right?" continued Moore. "Widely reputed to be generally available, from what the tabloids say – Meg could use a pick me up..."

"For future reference, I generally do not encourage my brother to sleep with my friends," Sam said, a bit less cheerfully. "Not if I want them to continue to be my friends. But I'll see what he says. I'd better go. I love you, Jess."

"I love you too, Sam," they exchanged a kiss, and Sam headed out the door.

Preparing for the evening, Castiel had dressed in a plain white button up shirt, dark pants, and a blue tie. His role for the evening was to be Sam's "official" observer. Gabriel would be undercover, mingling with the guests in case anyone approached Sam or anyone from their list of known Roving Demons attended. He wore jeans, boots, and a t-shirt that showed the outline of a guitar and said "Winchester's at the Road House" in stylized script letters around the body of the instrument.

"I am so ready for this," Gabriel said gleefully. Grabbing a jacket that matched his pants, Castiel opened the door for Gabriel, and together they headed down the street, trailing behind Sam. They followed him to the subway, sitting a casual distance away in the train car, all the way downtown.

The Woman in White was a small venue. Circling the block, Sam avoided the packed sidewalk buzzing with excited conversation and made for the stage door. A buzzer triggered the lock to open, and Sam hurried inside, keeping his head bowed. A few moments behind him, Castiel and Gabriel caught up before the door closed. While Gabriel headed to the bar, Castiel looked for the head of security, Mr. Reznick, with whom he'd spoken on the phone. The large, good humored man led Castiel to the observation room where the sound system and lighting were operated from. From there, Castiel could see the entire audience and the stage, and there was a bank of monitors showing various shots of back stage.

Few people were around. Backstage, a camera showed Castiel a view of a dressing room, where the Winchester brothers were intent on their instruments. Another security guard passed from monitor to monitor as she boredly did rounds. The faint sounds of a guitar and a violin were audible in the booth. On the stage, a man and a woman bustled, connecting equipment, setting up chairs, doing sound checks with the tech woman sitting by Castiel. When their dialog made it clear that they were satisfied with the set up, they exchanged a thumbs up. Moments later, Sam and Dean Winchester stepped on to the stage.

Objectively, Castiel knew what to expect when he saw Dean Winchester. He'd read reams of files about the man, had seen numerous photographs taken from the time he was a small child and his mother was still alive, all the way through his career. Promotional images of the famous Mary and John Winchester, her stomach swollen in pregnancy and the three year old beaming between them. Grainy video of Dean on stage, playing a ukulele when he was too young to accompany his dad with a larger instrument. Paparazzi shots of him in motel rooms over the years, looking after his younger brother while their dad played a show. Glossy magazine spreads of the Winchester Trio, starting when Sam was 7 and Dean was 11, John on guitar accompanied by his sons on violin and bass. Instagram shots of Dean over the past few years, playing duets with his father or breaking out solo. If asked, he could have described all of Dean Winchester's features, and thought himself intimately familiar with the man.

Pictures were a mere shadow of the powerful reality. His appearance perfectly matched his gruff voice, angular nose, manly jaw just barely rounded and covered in a five o'clock shadow too perfect to be accidental, brown hair cut short and spiked. He wore blue jeans, worn boots, and a black t-shirt, layered with a button up plaid like his brothers, that in turn covered by a beaten leather jacket. Though he could play several instruments, when he was solo he stuck to guitar, and he carried it on the stage like it was an extension of his body, strong hands adjusting it with comfortable ease. None of that was what truly arrested Castiel's attention, though. Nothing he'd seen had prepared him for Dean Winchester's eyes. Catching the light, they gleamed, now pale brown, now bright piercing green. Winchester peered around the room, his focus intense, then settled into a chair and began to do a sound check.

Castiel swallowed.

All things considered, if there was such a thing of perfection in male form, Castiel was pretty sure he was looking at it. Maybe not everyone's idea of perfection, but certainly his. Suddenly, Gabriel's behavior the previous evening seemed much less outlandish. If Castiel had a sex toy, he wouldn't mind having this man's signature on it...or his hands touching it...or...well, any part of Dean Winchester, involved in anything related to sex, interacting in any way with Castiel's body.

Focus. He was there to make sure that Sam Winchester was safe, not to fantasize about his gorgeous brother.

The sound tests were quickly completed, and Sam and Dean vacated the stage, to Castiel's regret. For the first time, he found himself looking forward to seeing them play. He'd heard music by the Winchesters, as a trio and as individuals. Normally, he found Sam's violin playing to be very pleasant, just his kind of thing, and the country, folksy sound of the band had only grown less alien due to constant exposure over the preceding months. However, just as photographs of Dean Winchester were only the barest imitation of the real thing, he suspected that actually hearing the Winchesters play would be night and day to hearing a recording.

Quickly, the room filled up with people until it was totally jammed. Despite the press, Castiel found Gabriel easily, standing right in front. He'd somehow gotten his hands on a cowboy hat.

A few minutes after nine, the house lights went dark and Dean came out alone. Silently, he took his seat, adjusted the mike, and did a couple experimental strums as if he hadn't already spent the better part of an hour tuning and adjusting and getting the sound just right.

"We good?" he said softly, the mike catching and amplifying the words. The room gave a chorus of replies, cheers and "yeahs!" and whoops. "Evening, everybody. Thanks for comin' out to see me. I've got some bad news..." Disappointed "awws" interrupted him, and he waited for them to die down. "As you can see, I'm sittin' here alone. My dad won't be joinin' me tonight." Groans, and some irate yells, filled the room, angry gestures aimed towards the stage. "I hope y'all will give me a chance to make it up to you." He looked up, green eyes catching the light with a delightful dazzle, the hint of a smile on his face, and Castiel realized with embarrassment that he was holding his breath, awaiting whatever was coming next. That stunning gaze left the crowd for a moment to look down at his guitar as he set his fingers to the strings, then back at the audience as he began to play.

_Sittin' alone on the banks of the river_

_Wonderin' what's to become of me?_

_Good times come and good times goin'_

_Wonder whatever's to become of me?_

The angry noises of the audience died down, lulled by the sweet tone of the guitar and the perfect pitch of Dean's low voice. The sound of the singing swelled as the fans on the dance floor joined in. They didn't drown out the mike, instead they amplified it, harmonizing, giving the lilting tune a depth and darkness that stole Castiel's breath.

_Wise man said there's a time for all things._

_Easy come and_

_Easy go._

_Wise man said let the good times roll in._

_Come on, baby,_

_Come roll with me._

Castiel closed his eyes and let the sound wash over him. He was wrong, Dean's eyes were not his ultimate weapon. That voice was, southern drawl, dulcet and steady, painting crystal clear pictures with scant words and a bottomless depth of supporting emotion.

_Singin' oh my baby, oh my darlin',_

_What's goin' to become of me?_

_Oh my baby, oh my darlin',_

_Come on down to the river with me._

The tune was simple, yet Dean's fingers danced as he picked out a counterpoint, every note true from his guitar. His eyes scanned the crowd, his face lost in the emotions he hoped to invoke, regret, sorrow, green gaze swimming in tears.

_Wise man said she got a hold on me now._

_A little too little_

_And a lot too late._

_Wise man said don't let them see._

_Come on, baby,_

_Won't you roll with me?_

Dean looked so upset, Castiel wanted to take him in his arms and sooth all that pain away. He told himself it was only an act, but he couldn't believe it. He'd read Dean's case file, he knew every nuance of his sad history.

_Singin' oh my baby, oh my darlin',_

_What, whatever's to become of me?_

_Precious baby, my sweet darlin',_

_Left me alone at the river to weep._

The words faded away, and Dean played on, a whispering echo that somehow evoked the sound of the river flowing by, loneliness and silent teardrops. When the last twanging note fell silent, the audience went nuts, clapping and calling out their approval cacophonously. Gabriel was literally jumping up and down. It was all that Castiel could do not to join them.

"Thank you," Dean smiled, an oddly shy, vulnerable look. "Thank you, New York City!" There was a wild cheer. "Been a long time since I've been here, and man, it's good to be back. As some of you probably know, after my brother Sam left..." Dean was interrupted by boos and hisses. He raised a hand to quiet them. "Come on, that's my brother your raggin' on. As I was sayin', after my brother Sam left, he came to New York to study music. Now, I said my dad wasn't here, and that's true, but I never said I would be playin' solo tonight." The entire room waited with baited breath. "Won't y'all welcome Sammy back?" Hesitantly, Sam stepped onto the stage, squinting at the brightness of the lights. With a half-smile, he looked out at the audience and gave a nervous wave. "He's not so used to playin' by himself anymore, used to havin' an entire orchestra at his back. I hope y'all will help him feel real welcome, remind him of how nice it is when someone can actually hear him play!" There was real affection in the words. Dean spared a glance from the audience to give his brother a genuine grin. The audience maintained their stunned silence.

Dean tapped out a fast beat on his guitar and launched immediately into a complex, high spirited rhythm. Moments later, Sam joined in, playing for all he was worth, fast and strident, oddly discordant and oddly beautiful and completely different than anything that Castiel had heard him play before. The beat started fast, and grew more and more rapid, driving towards a climax, the two instruments singing for the two skilled brothers who appeared to find the playing effortless. On the floor, people stomped heavily to the beat and some danced, finding room to twirl and jump and sway and spin.

Castiel was right. Hearing the Winchesters in person was nothing like listening to a recording. Seeing them on stage was nothing like seeing photographs or watching video. They were raw adrenaline and tons of talent and captivating charisma. They played as surely together as if they were one person, trading the melody line back and forth effortlessly, and the crowd ate up every single note. No wonder Gabriel was such a fan. As the song ended and Castiel released a white-knuckled grip on the arm of his chair, he wondered how he was ever going to get back to his regular surveillance job, watching the doldrums of Sam's day to day life.

Sam and Dean Winchester, playing at The Woman in White, were an unstoppable duo. Castiel was hooked. Drugs were one thing, but as the first set ended and Dean and Sam took their instruments and left the stage, Castiel gazed hungrily at the empty seats, each second they were gone feeling eternal. How long did breaks between sets typically go? He craved their return like air. So, this was what addiction felt like.

* * *

Music Inspirations (all links are to YouTube):

Chapter Title:

Queen – Bohemian Rhapsody: watch?v=k-ARuoSFflc

Lyrics to "The Banks of the River" are by me. Here are some of the songs I drew inspiration from:

Shirley and Lee – Let the Good Times Roll: watch?v=Q-LfuJCSnXQ

Smokey Robinson and the Miracles – Your Really Got a Hold On Me: watch?v=Y2EsZpobWJs

Grateful Dead – Ripple: watch?v=671AgW9xSiA

Gaslight Anthem – She Loves You: watch?v=WHYY-_3Ft84

Paul Robeson – Ol' Man River: watch?v=eh9WayN7R-s

Alison Krauss - Down to the River to Pray: watch?v=zSif77IVQdY

For an idea of what Sam and Dean's instrumental duet sounded like, listen to:

Orange Blossom Special – Bluegrass Fiddle &amp; Guitar: watch?v=a34PfHQzhj8

Alright...I'm super shy about this kind of thing, but I made a recording of "Banks of the River," the song I wrote for this chapter. I've debated sharing it for a week, but I finally decided to suck it up and put it out there. So, if you're curious what that song sounds like, it sounds something like this except, ya know, I'm a chick with a light voice instead of fricken Dean Winchester/Jensen Ackles with that low, gruff voice that sings like woah. You can hear the song here: watch?v=Uj4ZjOPzwj0


	3. Chapter 3: With You Through the Dark

**Chapter 3: I'll Be With You Through the Dark**

"That was fantastic," Dean lovingly laid his guitar in its case. "Seriously, Sammy, that was better than sex." He stretched hugely, releasing the kinks that several hours hunched over his guitar had left in his back. It felt so good it forced a groan from him.

"Ew," said Sam. Dean gave him a sidelong look, and was relieved to see that despite his words, Sam was practically glowing. There was nothing like the high after a good performance. In his heart, Dean believed that was what drove so many performers to alcohol and drugs – chasing that fix that could only actually be had from planting oneself in front of an audience, playing your heart out, leaving it all on the stage. It was certainly a lot of what drove him to the bottle.

"Pure fucking adrenaline, nothing like it," said Dean, grinning. No need to exaggerate his drawl when he wasn't performing. "How's it feel to get back in the saddle?"

"I've been performing constantly, Dean," Sam said. The bite was gone from his words, though. Not like earlier, when every sentence out of his brother's lips had oozed a painful contempt. Having Sam gone for so long had hurt like a piece of him was missing. For years, Dean had thought nothing would be worse than Sam's absence. Turns out, he was wrong. Having Sam condemn him so coldly the previous night had burned, wildfire loose in thoughts already made tumultuous and dry by his father's sudden disappearance. The phone ringing again so soon after Dean left the apartment was all that had saved him from a long, unsatisfying night of booze and sex, a quest to quell the plaintive voice in his thoughts that asked how the family he would do anything for had come to hate him so fucking much.

"Bah, this ain't some prissy string quartet," Dean said. "Come on, admit it, you had fun."

"I…" Sam closed his violin case, staring at it intently, concentrating on the simple task as he latched the clasps shut. Abruptly, he looked up at Dean, met his eyes and broke into a sheepish smile. "We _are_ really good together, aren't we?"

"Fucking amazing," agreed Dean. "You know, man, I've got a gig tomorrow at The Wendigo in Hoboken. It's a tiny venue but they have one hell of a beer selection. Playing there is always a good time."

"Why don't you come spend the night with Jess and I?" Sam flagrantly evaded the question. "I know you said you had accommodations, but…" Sam appeared to struggle with himself, and then enthusiasm won out and he matched Dean grin for toothy grin. "I really like her. I think she's 'the one.' I want you to get to know her – and her to get to know you – when you're not behaving like an asshole."

"I wasn't being an asshole," Dean laughed good-naturedly. "She's just way out of your league." Glowering comically, the light remained in Sam's eyes. Fuck, had he missed this feeling. Performing with his brother was nothing like performing with his father. When he played with his dad, he felt like a ghost, the wispy echo of the years that John and Mary Winchester were the most popular country duo in the country. No matter how hard he tried, no matter how much he strived and practiced, he could always see that tightness around his father's eyes, the inescapable reminder of all the things that Dean wasn't. When he played with Sam, he felt alive, like he existed beyond his parents' long-cast shadows. Sam's glower turned into a perfect puppy dog face, Sam somehow seeming to look up at him imploringly even though his brother was inches taller. "Alright, alright, I'll come over, but I can't promise I won't hit on her."

"Dude. Leave my girlfriend alone. I will punch you in the face," said Sam.

"Promises, promises," smirked Dean.

"Did you bring the Impala into the city?" Sam asked enthusiastically, forgetting to be surly and standoffish with him.

"Hell no," Dean laughed. "That'd be like throwing a steak into a yard of starving dogs. Anyway, I love my Baby but she's a bitch to parallel park. She's at a Park and Ride in Paterson."

Unable to keep the disappointment off his face, Sam managed to have sad eyes while still beaming. "So, you coming over?"

Dean hesitated. There was little that Sam could ask that he would turn down, especially not when he gave Dean a look like the one he wore. They'd only been together a few hours and Dean was already struggling to picture what life would be like when he left New York City without his brother. "You joining me at The Wendigo?"

"Dean, I can't," Sam's face fell. "I've got this thing on Monday morning, it's like, the rest of my life, and I only get 30 minutes to show I'm worth it. If I stay out late again tomorrow I might blow it."

"Thing?"

"Grad school at Julliard, with a full scholarship," Sam explained. Dean whistled.

"Fine, fine, I won't fuck up your future," said Dean. All he could feel was Sam slipping further away. They picked up their instruments and headed out the door together, saying good night to the venue crew, who were packing up the stage, cleaning the floor, scrubbing the bar. Neither said anything as they headed out the door and down the street towards the subway. There was an itch between Dean's shoulder blades, as if he were being watched. Glancing around, Dean saw nothing out of place for the Lower East Side after midnight on a Saturday night – which was to say, he saw a whole mess of weird shit, from a raucous group of drag queens to a short man in an oversized cowboy hat to a tremendously drunk bridal party decked out in pink dresses and boas to what looked like an accountant loosening his tie – but nothing to explain his uneasiness. It was a long walk to Astor Place, and Dean fought down the mounting sense that this was it, that this was the last time he would share with his brother before he lost him forever, before he settled down with that hot chick and got his full ride to Julliard and never had any use for his footloose older brother and his guitar.

"I'll spend the night," he said gruffly.

"What? Really?" Sam enthused, smiling happily.

"Yeah, really," grunted Dean.

"That's…that's awesome, Dean," Sam caught him in a rough hug right on the street. The drunken bridal party whooped and catcalled for them to make out.

"Yeah, yeah, get off me, Sasquatch," said Dean good-humoredly, shrugging off the hug, but not before returning it.

It was a long train ride uptown. Dean shoot a text to Bela, who had offered him a bed in Queens, at the high price of sharing hers. Not normally a problem, as far as Dean was concerned, but Bela was a selfish lay. Last night, she'd made him sleep on the floor after they'd fucked. Typical behavior. Staying with Bela always made Dean feel like a whore. Though, at least with Bela, he knew exactly where he stood and he knew he was being used. He couldn't say the same for a lot of the people he interacted with, the venue owners, the motel proprietors, the "old friends" with ulterior motives. As Dean had gotten more successful, the number of people who latched on to him in order to push an agenda had grown. The strangest thing to him was that they all assumed he also had an agenda. When he told them he didn't want a record deal, they thought he was trying for a better contract, more money, increased royalties. When he said all he wanted was to play shows with his family, they thought he was trying to get them to hire Sam or John as well as himself. It was all rank bullshit, and now that he traveled alone so much of the time, scheduled his own gigs, was his own manager, he struggled immensely, hundreds of hours in the car with nothing but Zeppelin, Metallica and his own frustrated thoughts.

By comparison, the train ride was a dream. The awkwardness between him and Sam was gone completely, and they talked easily, catching up on the last couple years. Sam talked with enthusiasm about his time at school, and Dean shared anecdotes of some of the more interesting jobs he'd had of late. Sam was suitably impressed that Dean was working solo and pulling it off, and Dean was similarly awed that his brother was first chair violin at one of the most prestigious music schools in the world, not that he said so to Sam in anything like those terms.

After the hubbub of downtown, Sam's neighborhood was eerily quiet. They made their way from the train station, one of only a handful of people to get off at 145th, though Dean noticed with amusement that another was the adorable accountant, black hair disheveled, tie askew and suit jacket buttoned against the cold. Few others were out on the streets, and a wicked cold wind howled through the corridor made by the streets. Their conversation finally petered out. With the piercing chill, the surprisingly deep darkness, and the pervasive sense that someone had their eyes on him, Dean found it impossible to maintain cheerful interaction.

At Sam's front door, he knocked a warning before opening the door. When there was no answer, Sam opened the door, shushing Dean. "Jess had a friend over for the night," whispered Sam. "Let me just check who is sleeping where." He ducked into the shadowy apartment.

The hallways of the brownstone were quiet in a way that made every small sound enormous. Dean set his guitar down, stretching hugely. It wasn't that late by his standards, but he was surprisingly tired. Somewhere, water dripped. From within Sam's apartment, Dean heard hoarse breathing and the faint thumps and rustles that marked Sam's attempts to navigate the rooms from memory.

Downstairs, the front door opened and thudded shut, noise reverberating through the hall as someone took the stairs at a run.

"Dean," shouted Sam frantically from within the apartment.

Instantly, Dean dashed through the door, cursing as he ran straight into a table that tried to tangle his legs. Flailing, he caught the light switch for the living room, illuminating a vacant room.

"Dean!"

Sam's voice came from the bedroom. Dean leapt over the couch and through the door. Faint shadows from the windows cast the room in shades of black, blue and gray. Sam squatted on the floor, clutching Jess' in his arms, her still form clad in a white nightie. The sharp, nauseating tang of vomit clogged his nose. Jess spasmed and her breath rattled desperately, her entire body went rigid, only to collapse limp again. Sam was making inarticulate noises, staring at Jess, one hand helplessly shaking as he brushed hair from her face, glancing at random over his shoulder at Dean. He looked terrified and confused, completely lost.

Memories paralyzed Dean. His father, tears streaming silently down his face, bent over on the floor, cradling his mother with all his strength, so powerfully his arms trembled. Blue and red lights playing off the walls. Mom giving one last shudder before going still forever. "Take your brother outside as fast as you can," his father had said, "don't look back! Now, Dean! Go!" This room was dark where that one had been lit dim. This room was homey and comfortable where that one had been cheap wall paper, coarse carpeting, and polyester bedding. This time he was an adult, not a four year old boy with only a vague understanding that something was very wrong, daddy was upset, mommy wasn't feeling well. Sammy was a man now, not a infant. Despite the contrasts, in those first instants, Dean was a child again, confused, uncertain, upset, useless.

"Sam," called a deep, rough male voice from the other room.

The voice dragged Dean from the past, and he fumbled for his cell phone. As he hit the emergency dial button, the accountant burst through the doorway. Since the walk from the train station, the man had acquired a trench coat from somewhere.

"What the fuck…?" Dean said.

"Sam, put her down," the man said authoritatively. He was tugging at his tie, loosening it.

"Help her!" pleaded Sam.

"911, what is your emergency?" said a professional female voice from his phone.

"Yeah, yeah," Dean ran put a hand to his forehead, trying to collect his disordered thoughts. "My brother's girlfriend is unconscious. I think she overdosed."

"I will, Sam," vowed the accountant. Clearly at a loss, Sam laid Jess on the floor.

"What's your location, sir?" asked the 911 operator.

"374 East 144th Street, Apartment, uh, 5C," Dean rattled off from memory.

The accountant leapt to Jess' side and began to do CPR. "I should have thought of that," mumbled Sam, running his hand through his hair distractedly. "I should have..."

"We're sending an ambulance," the operator said. "Do you know what she took?"

Dean had a pretty good idea. He knew what his mother had taken, what Sam used to take. Sam was supposed to be clean, dammit. He felt a flash of anger. It was beyond his comprehension that Sam had used, after what had happened to their mother. It had been beyond John's, too. That had been one hell of a fight. Fuck, he had to focus. "Sam," he said with authority. Sam's gaze turned, vaguely, towards Dean, then drifted back to the accountant. "Sam, what did she take?" Sam's face fell, guilt adding to his horror and distress. "Sam!"

"Speed," he said miserably. Dean groaned. He fucking knew it. "She takes – she took – it's gotta be speed." The accountant rhythmically compressed Jess' chest, hard, expert strokes, then huffed into her lungs.

"Methamphetamines," Dean told the operator. "There's a man here doing CPR."

"That's good, sir," the operator said encouragingly.

Tears welled in the corners of Sam's eyes. He wrung his hands, expression lost, looking from the accountant to Dean.

"Is there anything else I should be doing?" asked Dean.

"Has she already vomited?"

"Yes."

"Then, no – wait for the ambulance, and if she's not breathing on her own, keep up the CPR," said the operator.

"Thanks." Dean hung up immediately and pocketed the phone. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed Sam's face and made his brother look at him. "Ambulance is coming, Sammy. She's gonna be okay. She's gonna be fine. Just you hold yourself together, here?"

"This wasn't supposed to happen," Sam moaned helplessly. "She told me she'd stopped. She promised me."

The accountant snorted, or at least Dean thought he did, but when Dean looked over all he saw was the same intense concentration as the man continued his ministrations to Jess' body. Dean caught his brother up in a rough embrace, murmuring words of reassurance all the while.

When the downstairs buzzer went off minutes later, their positions hadn't changed. Worried about how upset Sam was, Dean nonetheless shrugged off his brother's arms and let the EMTs in. They charged up the stairs carrying a load of equipment.

A whirlwind of events followed, the EMTs loading Jess onto a body board, Sam staring after her like his heart was shattered and he hadn't a clue what to do with himself, the accountant hunched over, hands on his knees, breathing hard to catch his breath. Dean found out from the EMTs where they were taking her, and as soon as the ambulance left, he hustled both of his companions downstairs, got them a cab, and made sure they all got to the hospital. Keeping his wits about him, keeping himself focused on Sam's needs, was all that was keeping him from falling apart himself. Their family was fucking cursed, that was the only explanation.

That was how they found themselves sitting in a private waiting room. Sam was staring at nothing, eyes unfocused, tears leaking down his cheeks periodically. Dean emotions were roiling. Inactivity and quiet brought them back into focus, the memories he was trying to escape rapidly catching up with him. The accountant had a vague, baffled look on his face, his head quirked at an angle, giving every sign that he wasn't quite sure how the heck he'd ended up with them at the hospital. The sadness and pain evoked by the parallels to Mary Winchester's death faded into a dull, throbbing anger that only grew in intensity as the minutes passed and they heard nothing.

"Sam, are you using again?" Dean finally broke the silence, unable to hold his temper in check any longer.

"What?" Sam looked at him uncertainly, eyes still glued on the plain floor tiles.

"I thought it was a damn clear question," snapped Dean. "Are you doing drugs?"

"You're asking me that now? Fuck – no!"

"Really?"

"Really, no," Sam snapped, anger growing in his tone. "How can you even ask me that?"

"Might have something to do with the way your girlfriend just tanked herself," said Dean caustically.

"I can't have this conversation with you right now," Sam shook his head.

"Cause if she was using, it seems mighty likely you were too," Dean continued, unable to hold the words back. Some part of his brain screamed at him to shut the fuck up. Sam was hurting enough, Dean should leave him alone, but he was too angry. Drugs! Why the fuck was it always drugs?

"Mr. Winchester," the accountant's voice was firm and cut off everything that Dean was about to say. He blinked in wonder. No one called him that. "Your brother has not been abusing illegal narcotics."

"And who the hell are you? You followed us, didn't you? Were you at the concert, too?" Dean asked shrewdly, turning his temper on the pretty, suited man. The accountant looked at him, expression neutral yet conveying anger, disdain, protectiveness of Sam. In the harsh, bright light of the hospital, the accountant's eyes were dazzlingly blue, so clear and deep that Dean thought he might drown.

"That is not your concern," said the man in a voice that brooked no argument.

Fuck that, Dean could argue with whoever the fuck he wanted. "Bullshit. If you're fucking with my brother – what, are you his dealer or something?"

"Dean—"

"Shut up, Sam," he snapped. "If you're in trouble, I swear I will get you out of it, but you've got to be straight with me. Who the fuck is this guy?"

"I'm not in trouble – I didn't think I was in trouble," amended Sam, running his hand through his hair again, mussing it beyond redemption. "Oh, Jess," he moaned, dropping his head into his hands.

Dean's heart shattered. Tension hung in the air for an instant, then he swallowed, anger imploding into worry and concern and distressed memories. He moved so he was sitting beside Sam. "Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry," he mumbled. "I'm a fucking asshole. You can hit me if you want. If you say you weren't using, I believe you." Sam looked at him gratefully. "Come on, hit me." Dean pointed at his chin."

"I'm not gonna hit you, Dean," sighed Sam. "I just can't believe..."

A knock on the door interrupted their conversation. It opened a moment later, and a depressingly unattractive nurse stepped into the room. "Mr. Winchester?" she asked politely. Sam nodded. "Jessica Moore's parents have given us permission to update you on her condition."

"Is she alive?" the desperate hope in Sam's voice was painful to here.

"She is," confirmed the nurse. Tension drained from Sam's body and he slumped bonelessly into his chair.

"Thank God," he murmured. "Thank God!"

"The prognosis isn't good, Mr. Winchester," continued the nurse, tone professional. "She's in the ICU, and she's currently in a coma. At the moment, she's stable. We've done everything we can. The rest is up to her. One of three things will happen: she'll recover, possibly with brain damage, but there's no way to know until she wakes up; or, she'll die; or, she'll remain in a persistent vegetative state."

"Is there, I don't know, like, what's normal? What's common?"

"Most patients in this situation die," said the nurse with a hint of sadness. "However, she is still holding on, and her vitals are good. She's got a chance."

"When can I see her?"

"I can show you in, sir," the nurse said. Sam was on his feet instantly and out the door, leaving Dean alone with the accountant.

The man was staring at him.

Meeting those bright blue eyes, Dean glared back.

The contest was on – which of them would break eye contact first? There was no way that Dean was going to let some blue eyed freak assert dominance over him, no matter how pretty the guy was. And, looking at him – really looking at him – for the first time, there was no denying that he was pretty. It was a weird descriptor to use for a man, and Dean wasn't sure why he felt it appropriate in this instance. It wasn't that the accountant wasn't masculine – he was, with well defined features, a firm chin, a lean, toned body. Yet, with the combination of his tousled black hair, pale skin, and those unbelievable eyes, Dean's mind whistled appreciatively and went straight from attractive, to pretty, to beautiful as it sought an appropriate adjective. Dean scowled. The accountant broke eye contact, but there was no defeat in his expression – he simply looked away, expression remaining impassive.

"Castiel Novak," the accountant said gruffly.

"Huh?"

"My name," he said. "That's my name." Maybe Dean _had_ won the staring contest. The man – Castiel – didn't sound cowed, but he was clearly flustered.

"Dean Winchester," Dean shot back.

"I know," Castiel said. The slightest upturn of his lips revealed amusement. "Your brother is not doing drugs."

"Leave it," said Dean tiredly. "He said he's not, and I guess I have to believe him, and you said who the fuck you are is none of my business, so seriously, just fucking leave it alone."

"I should not have snapped at you before," there wasn't the hint of an apology in his tone. It was shocking to Dean that anyone could speak with so little inflection. He found himself listening closely to every word Castiel said, trying to catch the slight modulations that would reveal the thoughts beneath the unflappable surface.

"So, Cas, how do you know my brother?" asked Dean. The man tilted his head slightly, eyes growing ever so slightly wider. Surprise, Dean thought, that's what surprise must look like coming from this understated weirdo.

"It is complicated," Cas replied. A hesitation before the word complicated – uncertainty, interpreted Dean, and evasion, of course. He said nothing else, and Dean waited as silence stretched out uninformatively.

"Ya know, we're gonna be in this room, just the two of us, for who knows how long," Dean said, letting his southern drawl stretch out his syllables again. "If we ain't gonna talk, we gotta find some way of passin' the time."

Castiel met his eyes once more, the intensity of the gaze stealing Dean's breath for a moment. Delicious, there was another appropriate adjective. "What did you have in mind?" he asked seriously.

Standing, Dean stretched suggestively, in a way he knew showed every well-defined muscle in his torso to best effect, caused his shirt to ride up to expose his belly button. Dropping back into his chair, he sat languidly, arms stretched over the backs of the chairs on either side of him, one leg crossed loosely atop the other. He hitched his hips once suggestively, settling further into a slump. He'd 'accidentally' not pulled his shirt back down. Castiel's expression didn't change, but he caught the edge of his lower lip between his teeth. As soon as realized that Dean was looking at his face, he looked away quickly, adjusting the sleeves of his jacket and shifting his tie as if he'd not been watching Dean's theatrics.

"Well, I tried chit chat, but you don't seem interested," drawled Dean. "I'm open to...alternative pastimes." He watched the other man, a predatory look in his eyes, and this time Castiel did break first, he looked down and away.

"I am sorry," said Cas. "I did not mean to discourage conversation. However, I am not at liberty at the moment to discuss the nature of my relationship with Sam Winchester. Is there some other topic that would be of interest to you?" Dean made no answer. Instead, he rolled his shoulders back into his chair and licked his lips evocatively.

"Come on," Dean let his voice become lower, rougher. "Can't think of anything you'd like?" He smiled lazily. Attentive to every shift in the other man's demeanor, Dean caught exactly the subtle signs he was hoping to see – the tightening of Castiel's hand against his leg, the way Castiel's pupils dilated slightly, black absorbing some of gorgeous blue, the lip Castiel barely snagged between his teeth.

"Mr. Winchester—"

"Dean," he interrupted.

"Mr. Winchester," Castiel repeated with emphasis. The faint signs of attraction faded, repressed instantly. Dean was surprised to find he was mildly disappointed. "I am aware of your sexual proclivities. Your attempts to make me uncomfortable are futile. If you actual wish to engage in discourse, I am willing to oblige you, but you will desist in this inappropriate familiarity."

Sighing, Dean let his head clunk back against the wall. "Got a pretty high opinion of yourself, don'tcha, Harvard?"

Castiel quirked his head again. It was a rather adorable habit, Dean thought. He immediately put the kybosh on his own thoughts. The moment after getting forcefully rejected was the moment when his brain needed to stop thinking of what a cutie the accountant was – or whoever the fuck Cas was. "How did you know where I completed my education?"

With a groan, Dean banged his head against the wall again. "Just...wow," he closed his eyes. "Forget I said anything. Why don't we just sit here, in silence, bored out of our fucking minds, waiting?"

There was the faint click and smack of Castiel opening his mouth and then shutting it again.

Poor Sam. What a nightmare this was. It sounded like he really dug this Jess chick – had said she might be the one – and now she was in a coma. Dean fished through his thoughts, trying to think of some way he could help his brother.

_We could drive across the country,_

_Maybe see the tall Redwoods,_

_Take a train through old Kentucky -_

_Come along, it'll do you good._

The music formed in his mind whole, lyrics and tune, lips whispering the words, fingers twitching in an imitation of the chords.

_Sure, we've been across the country_

_But we never had time to see._

_Sittin' backseat in the old car_

_Never stoppin', never free._

When they'd been kids, those trips with dad had been endless. Dean would spot some roadside attraction he wanted to see, the world's largest ball of twine, the C&amp;O Canal hike, carhenge. He'd beg to stop. John would say no. Sam would spot some roadside attraction he wanted to see, the Wyoming Dinosaur Center, the Boston Philharmonic, Mount St. Helena. He'd beg to stop. John would say no. There was always another gig to play, not a day to call their own. There was no time to experience, no time to live. Dean refused to work that way. This was his life, his only life. So he took all the gigs, every single one, but when he wanted to stop, he stopped. Even if he only got 10 minutes to stretch his legs, at least he could say he'd seen the world's largest ball of twine.

_I know you always longed for freedom._

_Know you always dreamed of home._

_Wish I could give you all you've wanted_

_So you'd not have to cry alone._

He fought to keep tears from welling up in his eyes. He's never known how to say the things that Sam wanted to hear, never been able to put aside his own needs and desires enough to see that Sam got what he deserved. Nothing would be more amazing than if Sam wanted to go with him, but that was never what Sam had wanted, never what Sam had needed. Fuck, that hurt. The things that were best for Sam had nothing to do with Dean.

_There's a place I long to show you_

_Far away on the Kansas plains._

_Not a soul around for miles,_

_Ease your heart and ease your pains._

"What are you doing?" demanded Castiel. Dean realized he was humming, but he didn't care if it bothered the other man. Sammy wasn't back yet, but there were things in his head that needed to get out, and the only way he'd ever found to say them was through his songs.

_How's about we go together?_

_It would be just you and me._

_Leave our hurt and loss behind us,_

_Make some brand new memories._

"Writin'," he muttered, lost in concentration.

_I know that this was always my dream_

_Know that what you need ain't me_

_But if shootin' stars grant wishes_

_This is what my prayer would be._

Fuck, he was a selfish bastard. He wanted to put Sam first, he truly did, but in mere minutes the thoughts transformed, and it was no longer about what was best for Sam. It was about what Dean wanted. Desperately, more than anything, he wanted them to be together again, like they always were before.

_We would chase that far horizon_

_Go wherever the roads lead._

_I know the night is long and lonely_

_But the sunlight brings relief._

"What are you writing?" asked Castiel, a hint of curiosity breaking through his stoicism and aloofness.

_All I want is us together,_

_I know there's nothing we can't beat._

_Yes, if only we're together_

_There's no place I'd rather be._

"Shove it," Dean managed. He was close to the end, the whole thing would fall apart if he stopped now.

_I know it's far too much to ask you_

_To give up all of this for me._

_Was supposed to be me helpin' you_

_How'd it end up helpin' me?_

If he had one wish, it would be for Sam to want to travel together as much as Dean did. It was too big a hope, though. Everyone left. Dean didn't blame them. He couldn't be with Sam for ten minutes without picking a fight with him. If that was how he treated the person he gave more of a damn about than anyone else in the world, how the hell was anyone else supposed to put up with him? Fuck, if Dean could leave Dean, he would.

_How's about we go together?_

_Just the two of us, you'll see._

_Leave the last five years behind us,_

_Make some brand new memories._

_Leave the fadin' ghosts behind us,_

_Make some brand new memories._

He released a shuddering sigh. His eyes were swimming. Blaming the bright lights and the long nights, he wiped them with the corner of his flannel shirt.

"Hey, you got paper and a pen I could use?" he asked. Castiel gave him a stern look, a miniscule downward turn to his lips communicating displeasure.

"I've got a pen," he said curtly, pulling one from his pocket.

"Thanks," Dean said. He riffled through his pocket until he found a beat up receipt and hastily scrawled down the lyrics. Part of him balked at even recording them. If he wrote them down, he'd play the song, and if he played the song, he'd be baring his soul for everyone who heard. It was an awful thought, but it was also the basis for his entire career. His best songs were those where he took the words he kept hidden deepest in his heart and leaked them from the stage. They were the things he dreaded to say, that he longed to say, and he guessed he was doing something right, 'cause when he sang them, others seemed to respond. Maybe that was his role in life, he thought as he finished writing the last lines, to lay his emotions on the line for everyone who couldn't find it in themselves to do the same.

"Did you just write a song?"

"Yeah," said Dean, passing the pen back.

"An entire song?"

"Yeah?" he repeated, confused.

"It's been 10 minutes," Castiel's voice rose with faint wonder.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him. "Impressed?" he asked dryly.

"Yes," said Castiel with a crisp nod. Dean blinked in surprise. "Will you...?" Whatever he'd been about to say, his words were cut off by the most incongruous cell phone ring that Dean had ever heard. It was porn music, pure and simple, except from some terrible 70s shit. Fuck, Dean even thought it recognized it from Busty Asian Beauties Volume 2. It sure wasn't his ring, that was "Smoke on the Water." The idea that staid Castiel had chosen a disco porno groove beat as his ring was ludicrous. Judging by Castiel's reaction, he felt similarly. He took a deep breath and released it, letting his shoulders slump, before he reached into his pocket. "Excuse me," he said to Dean, then answered the call. "Yes?"

The phone volume was too low for Dean to make out the other end of the conversation, and in an attempt to be polite, he tried to refrain from listening too hard. Instead, he tapped out beats on his leg, eying the lyrics. Of course he'd share the song with others. It didn't matter how personal the words were. That was his job. What the fuck kind of performer would he be if he didn't share the songs that actually meant something? He'd end up some Brittney Spears boy band mm'bop bullshit.

"No," said Castiel. Whoever was on the line had just spoken for like two minutes straight, and all Castiel had to say in reply was a simple denial? His tone was so forcefully neutral that Dean snorted on a laugh. Looking up quickly, he was relieved to see that Cas didn't seem to have noticed. He was sitting stiffly, eyes raised heavenward as he listened to the person who'd called him.

"I will call him," Castiel said firmly. "We will speak more after that." A squawk of protest loud enough for Dean to make out the indignant tone, if not the words, was audible over the line. "Good bye." Cas hang up.

"Dude, cold," Dean looked up, smiling and shaking his head.

"What do you mean?" Castiel's lips were curled into a slight frown again. For an instant, Dean fantasized about kissing at those pale, drawn lips until they were split open in a smile and red from teasing.

"That's some way to treat your girlfriend," said Dean teasingly. The voice that Dean had made out from the other end of the line had been male. "I mean, it's like 3 in the morning, she's probably just worried about you, and you go and hang up on her? Really cold."

"That was not my girlfriend," snapped Castiel. "I do not have a girlfriend. I—"

"Boyfriend?" Dean said casually. The answer didn't matter, he told himself. He'd be leaving New York City tomorrow – today, really, it was already technically Sunday – and it would be who-knows-how-long before he came back.

"Just as the overt display of your sexual proclivities is inappropriate, your inquiries into my sexual orientation are both forward and unwelcome," Castiel actually sounded angry. Dean felt a bizarre stab of pride that he'd managed to get a rise out of the guy. He made a mental note that Castiel's vocabulary grew more forbidding the closer he got to emotional vulnerability. He had no idea why he found the tell endearing. Nothing about the man should be endearing, they'd known each other for an hour and had yet to manage a single actual conversation.

"So, gay," he nodded.

"I have to go," said Castiel. He stood abruptly, straightened out his jacket, tossed his trench coat on, and stalked out the door.

"Don't let the door hit that sexy ass of yours on the way out!" called Dean after him, snickering. Maybe not his best moment. He'd driven away his only company through the long night waiting for Sam to come back. The way that Castiel's face had scrunched in irritation was priceless, though, and totally worth it. Maybe he'd ask Sam what the fuck had been up with the guy. Pushing aside dark thoughts of his missing father, his lost mother, his pained brother, Dean lost himself in far more pleasant fantasies. They featured a blue eyed stranger with a nigh-unbreakable poker face, and all the many ways that Dean could think of to crack that icy facade and draw needy cries, whimpers thick with longing, moans of desperate desire, and pleads for release from those pink lips.

* * *

Music inspiration:

Links are to Youtube.

Chapter Title:

Gaslight Anthem - Biloxi Parish: watch?v=o2RSKSYIXKY

There is likely to be a LOT of Gaslight Anthem inspiration for this story. I love their music, and many of their songs evoke Supernatural for me. I've been toying with writing a series of Supernatural fanfiction short stories, inspired by different Gaslight Anthem songs. For example, if I actually keep at this project, I'll probably write a prequel to this story, about John and Mary, inspired by their song 1930.

So...as I did in Chapter 2, I recorded how I imagine the song from this chapter going. "Brand New Memories" is an original song written by me for this fic. You can hear me embarrass the heck out of myself here: watch?v=5DRgD3nANOs


	4. Chapter 4: I Guess It's All Alright

A/N: Sorry about the delays getting this chapter up, I got distracted by writing smut and a trip that involved my driving 14 hours in a weekend. I realized if I just kept writing off the top of my head I'd start losing threads. Plus side, I spent a lot of those 14 hours thinking about this. Got back and spent 2 hours taking notes and actually writing out some outlines and such. So, that should help the narrative a little.

Note: There's a minor retcon to Chapter 3, so if you read it previously, now be aware that the line where "Jess' parents" give permission for Sam to see her, it now reads "next of kin." Cause that's not ominous or anything.

* * *

"So, what, is she going to stay like this forever?" Sam demanded, anger roughening his voice. It wasn't fair of him to shout at the doctors. It wasn't their fault that Jess was in a coma. They'd done everything they could, and if not for their efforts, Jess would have died. It wasn't fair that Jess was unconscious. It wasn't her fault. It wasn't fair that Sam had go through this. It wasn't his fault. It was an accident, must have been an accident, it was no one's fault. Bullshit. The people who made and distributed the drugs were at fault. They deserved to pay.

"I wish we had answers for you, Mr. Winchester, but we don't," the doctor said impassively. Every doctor he'd dealt with at Mount Sinai had professional indifference down to a science. "There are cases where people in her condition recover completely. There are cases where they wake up with neurological damage or physical disabilities. In the majority of cases, they never wake up. That is the most likely outcome."

"Oh," he said distractedly. The words weren't a surprise but they still hit him like a punch to the gut. With fevered desperation, between his audition, classes, performances, practicing, and commuting, Sam had spent hours reading about the effects of methamphetamine overdoses. What he read matched what Dr. Hydeker had put so bluntly, but having it applied to Jess hurt more than he expected. He'd dared to hope that she might have a different outcome than the average OD victim. The past week had been a nightmare, a swirl of fatigue, sadness, pain, and stress. It had taken all his willpower to drag himself to his audition Monday morning. If he'd bobbled a few notes, well, everyone knew what he had overcome to even walk in the door. Social media had guaranteed that.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Winchester," said Dr. Hydeker, wearing the kind of smile they teach in Bedside Manner 101. "I wish I had better news. Drug abusers have notoriously poor life expectancy."

If her prognosis was a punch in the gut, the jab at Jess' history as a user was a slap in the face. Everyone always blamed the person taking the drugs, never made any damn effort to understand why they used, nor did they show any understanding that without the manufacturers working to perfect ever better, ever stronger, ever more addictive, ever more expensive drugs, there would be no supply to ruin the lives of innocent people who got in over their heads. Whatever had happened on Saturday night, it wasn't Jess' fault. Beautiful, sweet, talented, affectionate Jess, with her laugh like tinkling crystal, her hair like silk against his chest, her strong fingers burning like fire at the lightest touch on his skin, her playing vibrant with all the emotion that a difficult life had taught her. Unable to find the words to rebuke the doctor's suggestion, Sam turned away, eyes swimming.

"You shut the fuck up," snapped Dean. In that moment, as in so many others over the past week, Sam was reminded how much he loved his brother. "Jess might – _might_ – have made a bad decision, but that doesn't mean she deserved to fucking die. So get off your fucking high horse and have some respect for someone who loved her."

"Mr. Winchester, do we need to have you removed...?" The look Hydeker gave Dean was carefully neutral but his voice screamed that if he weren't above such petty things, he'd be smirking. There was an unspoken "again" at the end of the line. Dean had nearly been permanently banned from the hospital for grabbing the jacket of a different doctor who'd suggested they were wasting valuable resources and bed space trying to keep an addict alive when there were more deserving people sleeping on cots in the hallway.

"No, I think we're done here," Dean said. Surreptitiously wiping tears from his eyes, Sam warily turned back to the doctor. Hydeker and Dean were locked in a staring contest, one that Dean was definitely getting the better of. The singer had several inches on the doctor, a great deal more muscle, and his worn, dark brown leather jacket was intimidating in ways that a plain white polyester lab coat never had a prayer of competing with. Normally, Dean strutting aggressively would have made Sam angry, but not now.

The truth was, Sam was already angry. He was furious. He wasn't deluding himself when he said Jess wasn't at fault. He _knew_ she wasn't. They'd talked about this. They'd both been using when they'd met, both been taking uppers constantly as a way to meet the intense demands of the school. They'd decided to quit together. Jess wouldn't break her word. That wasn't the kind of woman she was. And fuck all the assholes who said that addicts were all liars. He knewJess. Whatever it took, he was going to find out who was responsible for this, and he was going to make sure they got everything they deserved. It wouldn't bring Jess back – she wasn't dead, he reminded himself, there was still hope – but it might quiet the voice in his thoughts endlessly looping that he should have known, that he should have been home, that he should have gotten there sooner, that he should have saved her.

Dr. Hydeker backed down with a sour frown. Sam smiled, sharing in Dean's triumphant, cocky grin.

"Visiting hours end in half an hour," snapped Hydeker, turning and leaving.

Dean stared the man out the door, but as soon as they were alone, he slumped and turned to Sam. "Shit. I'm sorry," he said, face falling. "I know I shouldn't antagonize them, but what kind of fucked up jack off tells the victim's family that it was her fault she got hurt? That's bullshit."

"It's okay, Dean," Sam said. Dean opened his mouth to protest. "No, really, you're okay." His smile widened. It was the first time he'd felt human in almost a week. The smile was returned hesitantly.

"Seriously did you see the look on his face?" Dean's lips twisted mischievously. "Hey, you remember that itching powder I slipped into your tighty whities when you did that ghost hunt thing?"

"How could I forget?" Sam deadpanned. "I thought there was a poltergeist going after my...crotch."

Dean laughed a little too loudly. "Oh man, yeah, I forgot that part."

"No, you didn't."

"No, I didn't," Dean gasped as his laughter grew more genuine.

"You brought this up – why?" asked Sam, rolling his eyes overdramatically and tried to communicate with a look how extremely disappointed he was in Dean's childish behavior. In retrospect, it was hilarious, and a prized childhood memory, the more so because he had gotten Dean back about a thousand times over with his counter-prank. He'd taken all of Dean's boxers, left him with nothing but a single pair of girl's panties, and waited, fingers crossed and camera aimed, for Dean to discover the loss. He'd assumed that Dean would go commando, and had a whole plan for turning that agonizingly embarrassing. Instead, Dean had put the panties on, and worn them all day, and Sam had the pictures to prove it. He smirked.

"Dr. Dickwad, that's why," grinned Dean. They both knew Sam wasn't actually mad. "Every time I see his fake-ass smile I just imagine him trying to smile like that while his cock itches." The mental image came through crystal clear, amplified by the fact that Sam knew exactly how unpleasant that felt, and he bit back a chuckle. " 'Mr. Winchester, I...' " Dean did an obvious imitation of the doctor, breaking off to scratch at his thigh. " 'I think we need to dickscuss...' " He scratched more obviously. " '...this is a very serious itchuation...' " Sam snorted. " 'We haven't scratched the surface...I mean, there's a burning need to...' " Laughter broke free, rocking Sam in his chair. " 'No one appreciates my care, that's my crotch to bear...cross! Cross to balls!" Doubled over, Sam could hardly breath. "Fuck, it's good to hear you laugh," Dean dropped the imitation and sat down beside Sam, setting a hand on his shoulder. "You're going to be okay, Sammy. Everything is going to be okay."

Tears were streaming down Sam's face, laughter subsiding into sobs, and he threw his arms around his brother. In the first instant, Dean stiffened, but then he relaxed and embraced Sam, strongly gripping around his shoulders.

"Thank you, Dean," mumbled Sam brokenly. "Thanks for everything."

"Don't mention it," Dean answered. "I'm your brother. What kind of fucking loser would I be if I wasn't here when you needed me?" Sam managed a smile that Dean couldn't possibly see. Of course, Dean didn't think he'd done anything note worthy. After all, he'd done nothing more than cancel his entire tour schedule for the week, eating various fees and sitting through hours of verbal abuse. He's only accompanied Sam around the city, made sure that Sam ate and slept, kept him company at all hours, and still found time somehow make friends with some of Sam's classmates while Sam was at school. And coordinate two impromptu jam sessions with said friends. And write a song. And handle the nurses and hospital staff. Nothing special.

"Jerk."

"Bitch," said Dean in the gruff voice he always used when he refused to sound affectionate.

They stayed that way until the hospital PA system kicked on and announced that all visitors should leave the building. The moment the loudspeaker shut off, Dean drew away as if burned, putting on a tough look and straightening his jacket. "Come on, let's get the fuck out of here. We can come bright and extra early tomorrow, if you'd like."

"Yeah," said Sam. "Maybe. I don't know." Dean frowned. Tomorrow was Saturday, a week since Jess' overdose. When he thought of spending the entire day at the hospital, every emotion balked. That wasn't what he wanted. Standing vigil next to her bedside felt too much like waiting for her to die. What he wanted was vengeance. With a full day off, no audition hanging over his head, he could begin to do the legwork that would be necessary to learn what had happened. He needed to know who had sold her the speed. He needed to know where the speed had come from. He had all the contacts necessary to learn that, and learn it quickly. That was why Castiel and Gabriel followed him around. Once he'd quit using, he'd taken everything he'd learned to the DEA, and had helped them track down every bastard dealer and cook and supplier and distributer he could, helped make sure they had enough evidence to get convictions that would stick. It had always felt good. Now, it would feel even better.

He needed to talk to Castiel. They'd been trading text messages all week, but with Dean around so much, there had been no way to talk. Though Dean had covertly asked several times, Sam had managed to dodge explaining who Castiel was or why he'd been at the house the previous week. Sam was fairly sure Dean was only asking because he wanted Castiel's number.

"So, Sammy," Dean said with deceptive casualness. "Whaddaya say we find a bar and get smashed?"

"What do you say we do a show?" countered Sam. They made their way through hallway after sterile, white, identical hallway, following the exit signs to the elevator.

"Huh?" Dean looked over his shoulder, brow furrowed in confusion.

"Come on, someone offered you one, right?"

"Yeah, several 'someones,' when they heard I was hangin' out in the city with my kid brother," shrugged Dean. "I told them to read the newspaper and go fuck themselves." The trades and bloggers had heard that Dean Winchester was cancelling shows and had not rested until they found out why. The news had hit Monday evening that the long-absent Sam Winchester had suffered drug-related heartbreak, and the comparisons to their father and the death of their mother had immediately ensued. The results had been, understandably, pandemonium. Sure, Dean wasn't all that famous, and Sam was much less so, but their parents were...who they were, and the whiff of scandal brought journalists like shit brought flies. They reached the Impala, gleaming black in the headlights of other cars leaving the rapidly-emptying underground parking lot. Dean had brought the car into the city to facilitate ferrying Sam around, eating the cost of parking it in indoor lots. Sam cringed to think how much money Dean had blown this week. He knew Dean had never had much to begin with.

"Call one up and tell them we'll be there," said Sam. Helping his brother earn back some of what he'd spent was the least he could do, and standing on a stage, sweating his ass off and playing his heart out, sounded like a great way to spend the night.

"Say what?" Dean asked dumbly, freezing with the key in the door.

"Find some place that'll let us play tonight," Sam explained like he was talking to a kindergartener.

"That's nuts, Sammy," Dean said, opening the door. He slipped into the driver's seat and leaned over to unlock Sam's door. "No place will take us on such short notice."

"Of course they will, Dean," snapped Sam, dropping into the car and tugging the door shut. The familiar setting soothed his soul immediately. The smell of worn leather, the ubiquitous creek of the old hinges, the pristine condition of the dashboard, all spoke to endless days on the road. The entirety of Sam's childhood was spent curled up in the middle of the front seat, then in the backseat kicking at Dean's chair. Dean turned the key, the engines hummed to life and the radio kicked on, playing the Allman Brother's Band, Southbound, B side of Brothers and Sisters. Sam knew every track on every album on every tape that had ever played on this car. It wasn't much of an accomplishment, there were only about 30, played until they wore out, were replaced, and wore out again. He soaked it in, not realizing until they were paying the garage attendant that Dean kept giving him sidelong looks.

"I got a better idea," Dean drawled. "I drive you home, fetch my old friends Jose, Jack and the Captain, and we all spend the night together. It's way better than playin' to some sots who never even heard of us."

"No, this'll work," Sam insisted. "You said it yourself, Dean – we're all over the news. So, call up a venue and have them put out on social media that we're playing a show. People will eat it up."

Pulling onto 5th Avenue, Dean alternated glancing at Sam and glancing at the road. They stopped at a red light. Dean shrugged and dug his phone out of his pocket, thrusting it at Sam. "There're some messages from some places. Pick whichever strikes your fancies, gives you warm fuzzies or whatever shit you'd like. You know I'll never say no to spendin' the night playing instead of piss drunk."

Sam flipped through the list of voicemails. The "alert" number said 50+, and Sam spared a moment to appreciate how organized Dean kept his contact list, for every single entry was identified with a name, business, location and industry. Well, almost every one. Ellen's five messages just said Harvelle, Jo's were labeled JoJo Babe, and Bobby's simply said Bobby. Combined, those three accounted for a noticeable percentage of the messages. The rest were journalists and venue owners, primarily. Sam looked through until he saw a name he recognized, called them up, and before Dean steered them uptown towards Sam's apartment, Sam had booked a set at Bloody Mary's at 10 PM. Upon hearing Sam's proposal, the bar owner had shrieked so loudly that Dean had winced. The elated man had promised them an excellent rate for the show, all the booze they could drink, rooms for the night if they wanted, and that the audience be hanging off the rafters, all the while sounding like Christmas had come two months early. He was probably jumping up and down, too.

"What're we going to play?" Sam asked, pulling out his phone and opening a new note.

"Well, you're several years outta the game, Sammy, so I think we should stick to dad's standbys – _Love Song in Blue_, _Wildlife of Texas_, _Real Tough Times_…" suggested Dean.

"Really? Dean, you hate that stuff," Sam said.

"Sure do, but it brings the house down every time," Dean shrugged.

"Why not open with _South of the Border_?" Sam gave Dean a sidelong look so he could see his reaction. Surprise flickered over Dean's rugged features, then confusion, then understanding, and finally he broke into a wide grin. "It's way better than opening with _Banks of the River_ like you did last week, what the heck were thinking, getting a show started with a such a slow downer?"

"I was prepping them for you coming on stage, figured your playing would be that much more awesome by contrast," Dean said, a hint of youthful enthusiasm hastening his words. "You've been listenin' to my music, Sammy?"

"Of course I have, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, though Dean couldn't see. How could Dean have thought he'd do anything else? Sure, Dean didn't put out albums in any traditional sense, but that only made recordings of his songs in higher demand. There were entire communities on YouTube dedicated to begging, borrowing, or stealing high-quality sound and video of Dean's concerts. If only Dean would relent and put a track list up on iTunes, he'd make a killing. Sam would have to work on convincing him.

"Yeah, sure, let's play a bunch of the newer songs," Dean thumped a quick rhythm on the steering. "I hate that old shit. Unless…has that fancy school lost you the ability to jam?"

"Dude, there is seriously nothing you can play that I can't fake an accompaniment too," Sam teased.

Dean laughed, loud and long, and it dwindled to a chuckle. "I know it, Sam," he said with an intensity that surprised Sam. "Don't I know." There was a long pause. "I know the circumstances fricken suck, but, well, it means a lot to me, you wantin' to play with me again."

"Is that a whiff of sentimentality, or does my nose deceive me?" Sam sniffed loudly.

"Shaddup," snapped Dean. "I'm trying to be serious here. I'm just sayin'...I missed you. A lot. And, ya kow, if there's anything I can do, going forward, to ease your way, all you've gotta do is ask."

"Thanks, Dean," Sam replied. "Having you here to help has been awesome. I missed you, too."

"Right," Dean took a deep breath and let it whoosh out his mouth. "Set list. Let's do that." Sam shook his head as Dean began to rattle of songs they might play. He appreciated Dean's words all the more because he knew how hard it was for Dean to bring himself to say things like that. The prospect that his brother would have to leave any day now suddenly settled heavily and unpleasantly in Sam's gut.

An hour later, they pulled into a lot near the dive bar. Down an alley in Hell's Kitchen, if legend was to be believed Bloody Mary's had once been a Speakeasy, and supposedly was haunted, hence the name. Taking their instruments from the trunk, they walked down the crowded streets, just getting warmed up on a Friday night despite plummeting temperatures. The sidewalk outside Bloody Mary's was so packed with people that the dirty brick exterior, identified by a single flashing neon sign, was obscured. They stole into an alleyway to escape, Dean muttering darkly about feeling like the fucking Beatles, unable to show their faces in public without being mobbed by fans. In most people, Sam would have thought the displeasure an affectation, but in Dean's case, Sam knew it was genuine. Dean loved to perform, but when he was off stage, he preferred to be left alone, and was perpetually mystified him that anyone cared enough to follow his career. Sam wasn't sure if it was modesty or depressed self-deprecation, though he suspected the later. He supposed it was the inevitable side-effect of a life time of John always telling Dean he should do better, should do more, rather than even once telling Dean he'd done a good job. Dean automatically assumed he was inadequate. That he did his best anyway every day was one of those things Sam adored about his older brother.

John had never treated Sam that way. As he'd grown up, Sam had come to realize just how much shit Dean had shielded him from, and what a toll it had taken on his older brother. Guilt made Sam reluctant to take anything that Dean offered. Sam could never make good what Dean had already given up for him, an entire childhood sacrificed for premature adulthood starting at the age of four. Not that Dean expected Sam to make good, or held it over his head, on the contrary. Dean was aghast at the mere suggestion that he might have done anything less. Watching his brother's rigid back as he pounded on the back door to the bar, Sam felt half-formed thoughts beginning to coalesce. He didn't want to say goodbye to Dean again. He wanted to bring down the supply chain that had led to Jess' coma. He wanted to play shows and be on the road. He wanted to help Dean find their father. He wanted to know why Meg hadn't been at the apartment when they got back last Saturday. He wanted to get the hell out of New York City.

He didn't want to go back to Julliard.

Dean cursed a blue streak as someone spotted them and started to shout. Fortunately, the door opened at that exact moment, and they ducked into the building. Sam caught a glimpse of a familiar cowboy hat, and knew that Castiel had gotten his text about the show. Only Gabriel would wear that ridiculous oversized blue hat once, much less repeatedly.

Bloody Mary's interior lived down to all the seedy promise of its outside. Dim lighting, dirty glasses, and a sticky floor completed the picture of a place that must have used black magic or extensive bribery to pass health inspection. The next 45 minutes passed in a flash of tuning, instrument adjustment, the heavy patter of feet on worn floors as the audience filled the room to bursting, and then they were taking the stage under glaring lights, and Sam felt the perfect calm of performing wash over him. The Impala was the closest thing he'd ever had to a home, and the stage was the only school he'd attended for longer than a month. Standing in front of an audience always brought an intoxicating rush that just felt _right_.

"Hey, Hell's Kitchen!" Sam stepped up to the microphone, making a show of shielding his eyes so that he could see the crowd. Gabriel was standing right at the base of the stage and gave him a cocky wink as the audience cheered. "How're y'all doin' tonight?" Sam was a different man while performing, a southern boy with an accent thick in his tenor. There was another mad explosion of noise. "Awesome. Ain't got much to say, really – y'all ready for some music?" It was a persona, protection from vulnerability, a way to divide who he really was from who the public saw. It was not the kind of thing a classical violinist ever had to do. Though he hadn't been on stage with Dean regularly in almost six years, he donned the fake Sam and wore it as naturally as a second skin. In his heart, he was still one third of the Winchester Trio. He'd never really fit in at Julliard, though he'd tried, fuck, had he tried.

"A one, two, one-two-three-four!"

_I'm headin' south of the border,_

_Found my way to California._

_Drove all night to find the sun_

_Looks just the same on the next day._

_It's a long way to Texas._

_Lost my way outside 'a Vegas._

_Don't know what I'm doin' here -_

_And I don't care._

Heart pounding, Sam sang loud into the microphone clipped to his neck. It had taken him years to figure out how to hold the violin so he could play and sing at the same time. Dean's voice joined him, harmonizing unthinkingly, instinctually, habitually. The prospect of Dean leaving, of Sam returning to school as if nothing had happened, of going into class every day alone and returning home every evening alone, of visiting familiar haunts and seeing their mutual friends without Jess was agonizing.

_Oh doncha say I got no worries -_

_I've a load of them I'm sure._

_Oh doncha say I got no troubles -_

_I got mine, I got mine._

_Oh doncha know I got some baggage_

_In my car and deep inside._

_Oh doncha know I bear it always -_

_But I don't mind, I don't mind._

Maybe it was cowardice, to throw away what he'd worked for. He had six months of school left after a decade of dedication, practice and sacrifice. Yet, somehow, it suddenly felt empty and worthless. He didn't need a piece of paper from a prestigious academy to prove he could play. The audience arrayed before him, singing along and stamping their feet to the lively beat were all the proof Julliard.

_There ain't no place like Tijuana_

_Hermosillo, or Chihuahua._

_Least I'm sure that'd be the case_

_If I could find my way down there._

_Til I do I'll keep on wanderin'_

_Search for somethin' I've forgotten_

_Outta reach, so far away_

_Somewhere out there._

The song lied, they had gone to Mexico, not long before John found out Sam was taking amphetamines and the their miserable little family had shattered. Sam had gotten to practice the Spanish he'd picked up over the years, but they hadn't gotten to see anything else. Every few months found them on the same roads, seeing the same views, with John pointedly ignoring the same interesting places to stop.

_Oh doncha say I got it easy -_

_Come walk a mile in my shoes._

_Oh doncha say I stand for nothin'._

_That ain't fair, that ain't fair._

_Oh doncha know I had home once_

_Though that's a long, long time ago._

_Oh doncha know I think of stoppin'_

_But I don't dare, I don't dare._

They never did have a home, unless the Roadhouse counted. For Sam, it never did, and he didn't think it had for Dean, either. Sam had loved traveling and dreamed of abroad, of Tokyo, Paris, Dubai, Nairobi, Rio. That had been part of the draw of a classical career. He'd gotten the barest taste of it when school had paid for him to participate in a Mozart competition in Vienna. The reality of traveling as a symphonic performer had been driven home to him then – just like with John, he'd not had a chance to see anything of the city. He'd been in Vienna for four days, all expenses paid, and hadn't even gotten to eat a real, genuine, local pastry.

_I'm headin' east of the mountains_

_Cross the plains and through the heartlands._

_Earn my livin' with my playin'_

_In every city, ville and town._

_Keep on movin', always searchin',_

_Never stoppin', always workin'._

_I'll keep whistlin' that tune_

_Like I don't care._

Abruptly, he wondered what traveling with just Dean would be like. It had been the two of them so constantly through their childhood, in motel rooms or at the Roadhouse, that it was easy to forget that they'd never traveled just the two of them. Despite the lyrics Dean had written, Sam doubted that his brother would have the same single-minded drives as their father. Two things motivated John Winchester – playing music and avenging what happened to Mary. Alcohol, rage and a guitar were John's fuel. Dean might drink as much as their father, play the guitar even better, and be just as focused on the next gig, but even as a teenager Dean had asked to stop at the Grand Canyon and Buttermilk Falls and the Shenandoah even though 15 years should have taught him that John would _never_ say yes.

_Oh doncha say I had it coming,_

_Though I ain't sad with what I got._

_Oh doncha say I've earned a backseat_

_Fulla strife, fulla strife._

_Oh doncha know I love the highway -_

_Journey's endin' out of sight._

_Oh doncha know I did it my way_

_All my life, all my life._

Dean didn't deserve to be alone. Sam didn't deserve to be alone. All Sam had to do was leave with his brother, and he could make that right. Though a part of him felt guilty, thinking of abandoning Jess comatose in a hospital, he couldn't deny the temptation. He could leave. They could leave together. The decision sat well in Sam's mind. He'd leave with Dean. Theoretically, he'd need Dean's okay for that, but he couldn't conceive of his brother saying no.

Dean launched into a complex guitar solo, starting with the main melody of the song and improvising from there. There was a spur of the moment air to the playing that Sam had heard commentators suggest was proof of how good a player Dean was – that he could make something so complex, that he must have drilled endlessly, sound so easy and free. They had it wrong. Dean actually was good enough to invent his rides on the fly. Sam had played with him hundreds of times, and no two solos were the same – similar, sure, but not identical – and every single one was flawless.

_Yes, I'm headin' across the border_

_Between Hell and purgatory. _

_Drove all night to find my eyes_

_Burn just as much on the next day._

_It's a long way from heaven._

_Lost my way, alone and craven._

_Don't know what I'm doin' here -_

_And I don't care._

Gleaming brown eyes caught him from out of the crowd, a familiar rounded face framed by wavy brown hair. Meg! He had to speak with her, find out if she'd been with Jess, if she knew what happened. The girl hadn't been at school all week and hadn't responded to his texts or voicemails.

_Ain't got no damn clue what I'm doin'_

_And I don't care!_

The song ended, the last line shouted as the instruments fell silent, words echoing as the whole audience bellowed "I don't care!" at the top of their lungs. Dean broke into a rolling laugh to punctuate the carefree attitude of the lyrics.

They ran effortlessly through the remainder of the set. The whole while, Sam kept checking in to see where Meg was. She drifted through the crowd, apparently disinterested in the music. Her brow was perpetually drawn, and she eyed the crowd with a distasteful expression that deepened whenever someone bumped into her. She noticed him looking, and gave him a humorless half-smile and a nod towards the bathrooms. They wrapped up their last song before their break. Waving a brief goodbye to the audience – Dean drawling out, "y'all don't go no where, hear?" as he left the stage – they retreated to privacy behind the curtain.

"Damn, Sam, that was…"

"…better than sex, yeah, I know." Sam thrust his violin into Dean's hands. "Gotta go. Back in ten."

"What, you need a quickie?" called Dean after him with amusement.

He ducked into the front of the house, trying to mask his height by stooping. It was ridiculous, he'd been standing directly in front of these people for half an hour, there was no way that they wouldn't recognize him, but he stuck to the edge of the room and managed to duck into the smelly hall that led to the toilets without anyone accosting him. There was no one there. Three doors confronted him – one labeled "Dick," one labeled "Snatch" and the last blank. A knock clattered off the blank door – a knock from inside it – caught his attention, and he jerked it open. Inside was a small janitorial closet, and Meg's rotund form filled most of the space. Grabbing the unbuttoned sides of the flannel shirt Sam wore, she tugged him in, looked both ways to make sure no one had noticed, and slammed the door. Instantly, they were plunged into pitch black.

The space was uncomfortably close, their bodies flush. Meg was attractive, with an ample body, pleasant curves, and a penchant for sardonic grins that never touched her eyes. Not that he could see any of that, but Meg was a good friend of Jess' and they all went to Julliard together.

"Hey, Meg," he said awkwardly. "What happened…"

"Sam, Sam, Sam," she laughed, a deep, throaty sound. "We have got to stop meeting like this."

"…I don't think we've ever met like this before…"

"We have got to start meeting like this more often," she gave a suggestive wiggle.

"Meg, I know you're doing that just to make me uncomfortable," he managed. "If I tell you you've succeeded, will you please stop?"

"I suppose," she sighed with a pout he could hear. There was a long pause. "I'm sorry about what happened to Jess." It was the closest to sincerity he had heard in her voice since…maybe ever. How sincere, sweet Jess was close friends with wry, sarcastic Meg had always surprised him, the moreso because no matter what fiction said or how magnets worked, in his experience opposites rarely actually attracted.

"What _did_ happen, Meg?" asked Sam. It was impossible to keep a hint of a plea from his voice. She was the only one who might have answers.

"It's my fault," said Meg sadly. Sam stiffened, drawing a grunt from her. Anger surged through him. Meg had used too, once upon a time, and she'd also quit. That was part of why she and Jess were friends. "Not like that," she interpreted his thoughts easily. "I cancelled on her. If I hadn't, I'd have been there…I could have stopped her…" Meg sounded choked up. It was an incongruous sound, and Sam found himself wishing he could see her face. "My parents called and said they wanted to talk. I thought, what the fuck, I might as well hear them out, right?" She chuckled humorlessly. "Turns out all they wanted was another chance to tear me a new one. They'd boxed up all my stuff and had it in a truck, in their driveway, key in the ignition."

"Why didn't you call and tell me?" Sam asked. "I've left you like 10 messages."

"They cancelled my phone," she added. "Stopped all payments to the school. I'm fucked, Sam."

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said sympathetically. "If you need a place to go temporarily, my apartment is paid up for another three months. Why're they so mad?"

"It's a little soon to ask me to move in," said Meg wryly, giving another of those discomfiting wiggles. "Buy my a drink first, Romeo." She hesitated. "They're pissed because I joined a band on the side. A punk band. Playing the drums." Meg was a percussionist. Not a drummer, no one of such a low class of musician was allowed into Julliard.

"I won't be at the house," said Sam. "I'm leaving with my brother."

"Sam – picture perfect, practice himself to death, teacher's pet Sam – is dropping out?" she gave a hoot of laughter that filled her lungs so full of air that Sam was pressed back against the door. "Now I've heard everything."

"Meg," Sam said. She turned everything into a joke, and he'd never minded because he'd never tried to have a serious conversation with her before. From what Sam had seen, she and Jess had never had the 'long serious talks' kind of friendship, it had been more of a 'people watch and snark' kind of friendship. "I have to ask – do you know anything about…what happened? Why she did it? Did she say anything to you, maybe when you cancelled your plans for the evening?"

"I wish I had anything I could tell you," she shook her head against his chest. "All I know is what I heard through the grapevine. You know Ansen Weems?"

"The guy obsessed with the triangle?" Percussionists were weird.

"Yeah," she nodded, driving her nose into his breast bone. "He gets pot from a guy who goes by Phelps. Anyway, when I went to school to get my things, Weems told me that Phelps told him that like five people ODed on speed in the past week, and that Amarillos fled the city. That'd be a hell of a coincidence, if it's true."

"She was buying from Amarillos again?" Sam asked flatly, anger spiking.

"Fuck if I know," shrugged Meg. "But he must have been involved somehow, right? Meth – kind of his thing."

"Yeah." Outside, the sound of applause burst out, and the audience began rhythmically stomping so hard that the brooms and mops in the back corner of the room rattled against each other. "Yeah. Look, thanks tons, Meg. If there's anything…"

"Get out there, tiger," she said with a snide snarl and a flick of nails against his arm as if she were clawing him. "They're waiting for you. By the way, the bad boy southern country singer thing? Not what I expected. It works for you, though. And triggered a kink I had no idea I had. Damn glad I got the tweet telling me this show was happening."

With difficulty, he got the door open, and blinked at the dim light of the hall, bright by contrast to the closet. "Thanks," he repeated. "How can I contact you?" The swelling cheers urged him back to the stage, his fingers itching to play.

"Don't worry, Sam." He could barely hear her over the crowd. "I'll be in touch."

Pushing through the throng, Sam made it backstage to see a harried looking Dean, tapping a foot and looking impatient and irritated, but with a tightness around his eyes that screamed "worried" to Sam's eye. They didn't have time to exchange one word before they were hustling back on to the stage and launching into their next song.

Sam's mind was a million miles away, sprinting forward with what Meg had told him. One more day in New York City to tie up loose ends, that was all he needed. All he had to do say bye to his friends, make his farewells to Jess, pack the few things he needed, close up his apartment, fill in Castiel and Gabriel. All he had to do was find an hour or two to himself, so that he could go to the small park where Adam Clayton Powell met Macombs Place and speak with a couple of the people from his old life, the people he maintained cordial relations with because it was how he got the information that he passed on to the DEA. They'd know the truth about Ojos Amarillos, the dealer who Jess had been partial to. They'd know if he'd really left, and they'd know if the batch of amphetamines was bad, and they'd probably know if Jess had bought and who from. If he was very lucky, they'd even know where Amarillos was headed. Sam would buy a little– he always did, to maintain the illusion that he was still using – and flush it – he always did, because the very thought of popping the pills was repulsive, even more so after what had happened to Jess.

He didn't know what Dean's upcoming schedule looked like, but he suspected that Dean would be so glad to have Sam back that he wouldn't mind changing things up, so that Sam could be sure that their shows happened to take them in whatever direction Amarillos had fled. He'd nail the son of a bitch, and everyone he worked for, pass it all on to Castiel and Gabriel, and watch the entire organization go down in government-orchestrated flames.

Should be an interesting tour.

* * *

Music Notes For This Chapter:

All links are to youtube. If you go to YouTube and copy and paste what I've got written below into the search bar, they should come up - or you can search by their names.

Chapter Title is from Fun. - All Alright: watch?v=7fdpMyJ-ftU

Original song is "South of the Border:" /LnwV3VGDlcU

The song playing in the Impala is The Allman Brothers - Southside: watch?v=rTqODkfq4cw

Inspiration for the original song includes:  
Jimmy Buffet - Piece of Work: watch?v=7AFkwhzueF4  
Warren Zevon - Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me: watch?v=_TbfQPRgcS8  
Allman Brothers - Ramblin' Man: watch?v=68X8o0S7vJc  
Frank Sinatra - My Way: watch?v=6E2hYDIFDIU


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